Broken Souls
by bookloves
Summary: Isabel Marshall moved into 221C Baker Street, just below the flat of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Working for Lestrade, she knows quite a bit about Sherlock, though he doesn't know much about her. Unable to deduce anything about her, she interests him, and soon enough, their relationship is like the Universe-slowly moving forward, but unpredictable. Sherlock/OC
1. A New Tennant

Broken Souls

"Okay, there's one more person that's going to come and see if she likes the flat, okay? Be nice Sherlock. Don't be rude okay?" Mrs. Hudson had tried to get Sherlock to approve of someone to rent 221C, the basement flat. So far… No one has wanted to rent it out, because of him.

"It's not my fault, it's theirs." Sherlock said, quite annoyed.

"Anyway, who's the last person?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's comment.

"Her name is Isabel Marshall. She moved here from Canada a few years ago, but she just graduated from Uni a few months ago. She's working for Lestrade as his secretary, and is living with a friend for now until she can get a flat. She's quite nice and knows London a bit well. She's a lovely lady." Mrs. Hudson walked downstairs to her flat, knowing Isabel should've been coming within a few minutes.

Within 5 minutes, a woman was standing in the doorway to the flat, standing there awkwardly. John gestured for her to sit on the couch, which she did with gratitude.

"Hello. I am Doctor John Watson, and this is my colleague and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. How are you?" John asked the girl, a smile on his face. Sherlock looked her up and down, studying her, as if she were a textbook and he was about to take a test.

"I'm good, thank you. My name is Isabel Marshall, I moved to Manchester from Toronto in Canada about… I'd say 4 years ago, when I was 22. I applied for Unit there, and stayed in a dorm. I majored in English, and have a bachelor's degree in both psychology and sociology. A few months ago I graduated, and started working at Scotland Yard as a secretary for Lestrade. I stayed with a friend until I had the money for a flat in London, and so, here I am." She smiled, and looked over at Sherlock, and her expression turned confused. "Is something wrong?"

"The ring on your finger, left hand, is vintage, and may be worth a lot, so it's either an engagement or wedding ring. You dyed your hair auburn though you're a natural blonde, perhaps to make yourself feel confident. The way you're holding your stomach suggests that you've had a miscarriage, or an abortion recently, possibly causing your relationship with our husband or fiancée to strengthen. Your accent suggests you lived in Québec, as it sounds American but with a French lilt. You moved from Québec to Toronto around 20 years of age." Sherlock looked at her, waiting for her response when John scolded him.

"Sherlock that's not polite! You should—"

"No, no, Doctor Watson, it's quite alright. The thing is, Mr. Holmes, is that you are quite wrong. I never lived in Québec. I have visited there, yes, but never lived there. My dad was in the American Armed Forces and was stationed in Toronto. My mum was from Québec but moved to Toronto, where she met my father. That is why my accent is American with a slight French lilt. I've lived in Toronto my whole life. The ring on my left hand is also a promise ring given to me by my father. It was his grandmother's, which is why it's vintage—it's from 1910. He gave it to me when he left for Iraq, so I would know he'd come home to me eventually. I've never had a real relationship like that. I've never had an abortion or miscarriage, I'm simply having cramps from my period. And I was trying out a new color for my hair—it's also temporary. But I'm naturally dirty blonde, so good for you." Isabel smiled at Sherlock, who looked at her with shock and anger. John looked at him, then back to her, knowing she was smug, and Sherlock was irritated. Sherlock looked away from her, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"Which Branch of the armed forces was your father in?" John asked curiously.

"Military. He left for Iraq when I was 15, and he never came home. I just keep the ring on in memory of him. He was a hostage for a while, and his kidnappers eventually tortured him to a point where he died." Isabel looked at John with a small smile, knowing a tear would soon roll down her cheek. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, but did you serve in the Army?" John looked at her with utter belief, and Sherlock looked at her with a look of confusion.

"How—how did you know I served in the Army?"

"Mrs. Hudson told me. So, Doctor Watson, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Isabel asked, noticing Sherlock's reaction to her explanation of how she knew he was in the army, which was annoyance

"Afghanistan. And, please, call me John." He looked over at Sherlock, who was irritated yet again.

"Isabel, since Mrs. Hudson told you what John did, did she tell you my profession?" Sherlock asked, positive she wouldn't get anything right.

"No, Mr. Holmes, she hadn't. Gathering from what Lestrade's told me about you, you are quite anti-social, and—dare I say—a sociopath. Also, you are the only consulting detective in the world, which Lestrade has told me." Isabel smirked.

"Please, don't call me Mr. Holmes, my name is Sherlock." He tried not to seem angry, as she knew more about him than he knew about her. Mrs. Hudson had made a slight coughing sound, and it was clear she'd been there for quite a while.

"Would you like to see the flat, now? Or will you not bother?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Isabel nodded, and the two went down into the basement. There wasn't much furniture, but it was all Isabel would need for the time being.

There was a sofa against the cream coloured wall, facing the fireplace in the living room, with a coffee table sitting in front of it. The curtains against the windows were a dark blue, as if it were midnight. In the bedroom was a full size bed, with a tall bookshelf and a set of drawers. A small desk sat in the corner, perfect for studying and setting up a laptop, with a chair pushed into it. In the kitchen was a wall clock, with all of the numbers in Roman numerals. A small dining table with a few chairs sat in the middle of the room, making it seem a bit bigger than it was. The walls in the bedroom and kitchen were a beige, like a latté.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, it's beautiful. I love it."

"If you're going to rent it, I want you to know that John and Sherlock are a bit loud at times. Don't let anything Sherlock says get to you, love, alright?"

"I work for Lestrade. He tells me about Sherlock all the time, so don't worry. I've got it all down." Isabel smiled, and Mrs. Hudson gave a small smile. "So, uh, when should I move in? Do you have a preference for a certain day? Or…?"

"You can this week if you like." Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"Sherlock, why are you so mad? What did she do?" John asked, exasperated.

"I was wrong! How is that possible?" Sherlock threw his hands into the air, full of confusion and annoyance and anger. "And she knew what my job was!"

"Sherlock…" John covered his mouth with his hand, attempting to hold in a laugh and hide his grin. "Relax. She seems nice, and she is pretty smart. And I mean, for god's sake, she works for Lestrade. She knew about what you do before she came, obviously. You need to relax."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," John said, as if nothing had happened just moments before. In walked Isabel, her cheeks a light pink, her lips in a smile that showed her white teeth, showing her deep dimples.

"I just wanted to let you know that I've rented the flat. I'm moving in on Friday, of… That's okay. I won't be bringing in much, just a few suitcases and… Something—something special, for you and Sherlock both. I'm sure you'll enjoy it." She looked at Sherlock as if asking if she could come into the flat, hoping for a proper introduction. "May I, uh, come in, Mr. Holmes? I was wondering if I may ask you a few questions."

"You just did a few moments ago." Sherlock said, looking at her, annoyed. "But, come in, I suppose I have the time."

She walked in, and sat down on the sofa. "I also had a few for you, Doctor Watson. If you don't monde, of course." She looked at John with an innocently curious expression on her face.

"I don't see why not." John said, with a small smile.

"Alright. Sherlock, as you know, I work for Lestrade. As I am a secretary, I type and print out the reports of the crimes and the deductions that were made. While typing the report, I noticed a few mistakes he made, and was wondering if you could please look them over and fix them, as I do not go to the crime scenes, but you do. Would you, please?" She asked, taking out a small binder and handing it to him. "These are the reports for the most recent incident, and the one before. Take as much time as you need, but I need to be able to finish typing them by next Saturday, if that's doable."

"Of course. I'll most likely be done before next Saturday though." Sherlock took the binder from her hand, flipping through the papers. "Where are the mistakes?"

"Oh, I highlighted the mistakes, just so you wouldn't have to read it over completely, as that shouldn't be needed." She smiled at him, and he stared at her emotionlessly. Isabel looked over at John, and gasped.

"Oh, I forgot! John, I believe at one point you may have worked with my father. He was stationed in Afghanistan for a few years, and when he sent a letter to my mum, he said he met a very kind doctor, by the name of John. His name was Jared Marshall, he may have been about 36. Does the name sound familiar?" She looked at him hopefully, as if she this was the only way to hear about her father.

"Sargent Jared Marshall. He was a brave man, your father. I remember the day I met him, he was in so much pain. He'd been shot in the chest, but on the right side, and it was just below his shoulder. He kept saying how much he wanted to go home to his family. He said he had a beautiful daughter, age 15, and a gorgeous wife, from whom you got your looks from. Her hair and eyes, and his complexion and bone structure you have. He wanted to see you graduate, to see your first boyfriend, and walk you down the aisle at your wedding. Wanted to be a grandfather." John looked at the floor, an expression of sympathy on his face. "How much did he get to see of all that?" He asked quietly, almost a whisper.

"None of it." Isabel murmured. "When I was 18, my mum got a call, and found out that my father had been killed in a hostage situation in Iraq." She looked at Sherlock, who now stared at her. In his eyes, she thought she may have seen a flash of empathy or sympathy, but she couldn't be sure. John looked at her again, with a gaze she knew all too well. The veteran who knew what she had gone through, what her father had gone through. His face was a mix of sadness and sympathy, with a hint of stress—she understood the stress, considering he served in Afghanistan. "I've never been married, nor had a really boyfriend, to be honest. I've never had children… I was hoping to, one day, but ultimately decided against it when he died. I told myself I didn't want to marry, if he wouldn't be there to walk me down the aisle. I never went to prom… I never kissed anyone. I've never had my first kiss either." She laughed, and though it wasn't of humor, it was of disbelief. "I thought that by now, I, a 28 year old woman, living in London with a good paying job, four degrees, and a few friends would have been kissed at one point. Wouldn't you?" She looked at Sherlock, who was staring at her, intently, as if he were trying to paint her.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not. How many friends did you say you had?" He asked, as if she said she had none.

"Only a few. I'm shy, and I don't normally talk that much. For some reason, though, I keep saying every detail of my life. Anyway, I only have 5 or 6 friends. They're close to me, and I've known them since I moved here to England." She blushed, embarrassed, and looked away from Sherlock, her straight auburn hair falling to her shoulders. She looked at the watch on her wrist, and looked back at the two men seated in front of her, "I, um, I have to go. I'll be back Thursday." She bid her farewells with the two men, who were now more interested in her than they thought they'd be.


	2. Day Off

**A/N: This fanficton takes place after The Reichenbach Fall. I have seen The Empty Hearse, but I have decided to not follow the series (event wise), though I may introduce a few of the characters. We'll just see how this plays out. I wanted to clear this up before anyone asks. :)**

* * *

"Thanks so much, John. I hadn't realized how much I had actually packed. Until now." Isabel said, smiling at the fact that, after 2 hours, everything was put away, neatly and perfectly. He glanced at her, then back at the kitchen which was not the 'girliest' as he thought it would be, but rather colorful and relaxing.

"No problem. I'm glad that there's someone else for Sherlock to annoy." He looked back at Isabel, who was staring off into space. "Uhm, are you…. You okay?" He asked, not quite sure. She looked back at him, as if to say 'Huh?' and then relaxed.

"Oh, yeah I'm fine. I do that sometimes. I get distracted somewhat easily. I was just lost in thought." She said, seeming as though she were wearing a mask. She smiled slightly too much, and she replied a bit too fast to be okay. John brushed the thought off though, thinking he was probably over exaggerating. Last thing he needed was to turn into Sherlock, if even for a moment.

John looked out at the coffee table, which had a small midnight blue box on it, contrasting against the light brown wood. He gave Isabel a look as if to say 'What the hell is that?' Isabel chuckled and walked into the living room, picking up the box, and held it out to John. He took it reluctantly.

"This is the surprise I was talking about, Doctor. I haven't yet gotten Sherlock one yet, though. Any ideas as to what I should get for him?" She asked, waiting for him to open the box. As soon as the former soldier opened it, he gasped.

He took out a silver watch, the face of it black. Instead of showing numbers or a indication of time, England's Coat of Arms was on it, the colors bright against the black background. He flipped it over, to show an engraving that read:

_"You gave me another chance to go back home to my family by saving my life. Thank you, Doctor."_ in small, elegant writing. John looked back at Isabel, and saluted. She did the same, a sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Thank you, Soldier." She said, lowering her hand slowly to her neck, rubbing it gently, as if to calm herself.

"Thank you, ma'am." He said, sharply removing his hand from his forehead. He put the watch on his left wrist, feeling the cold, heavy metal against his skin. He looked over at Isabel, who was now sitting on the soft grey couch, with her eyes closed. "I love it, the watch I mean. I love it. It's beautiful."

"That's good, that you like it. I was hoping you would. I got it the day I met you. My dad was hoping I'd come across you one day, and when I did, I was to give you this watch. Custom made." She opened her eyes. "Anyway, what do you think Sherlock would want?"

John sat down on the couch, unsure of what the detective would like. His violin was still in good shape, so not a new one. Maybe a new set of test tubes, as the ones he currently had were starting to crack. "I'm not sure. He's always complained about gifts. 'I don't want them. I don't need anything. I have everything I want/need.' He's just so damn difficult and I hate it sometimes." He sighed, shaking his head slightly. "But, I guess it's not exactly the best idea to talk about him behind his back, is it?"

"Well, Doctor Watson, I guess it's _not _the most polite thing ever, but I guess that can get kind of annoying." Isabel said, her French accent getting a bit thicker with every word. "But, some things you just can't change." She said, smiling at John, who looked over at the door, then at his watch.

"I have to go. Thanks again for the watch. I love it, I really do. I've got a date though, sorry." He frowned slightly, though Isabel told him to go.

She was alone in the comfort of her small flat. Serenity, after a long day, was just what she needed to relax.

* * *

She woke up at 9AM to someone knocking rather loudly at her door. "Just a minute," She yelled groggily, getting out of her bed and opening the door. "Sherlock? What the hell are you doing right now?" She said nastily to the tall man standing in front of her. He smirked, knowing she'd hate what he was about to tell her.

"Well, Ms. Marshall, I thought you'd like to know that Lestrade just called me." He said, walking into her flat before she could argue.

"So? Why are you telling me? Why aren't you solving some case with your blogger?" She closed the door, and walked over to where he was standing in the kitchen. "Or does he want me to come into work? Because I was told I had the day off today." She walked over to the coffee maker, and starting making a pot of coffee.

"Actually, John's at his girlfriend's flat. He said he was going to be with her for the day. And I need someone to come with me. Will you?" He asked, really wishing he could go by himself.

"Yes, I'll go with you just to stand there and take notes like I do every single day, Sherlock. Because I have the day off, so why shouldn't I do my job? That makes total sense, Sherlock." She said, sarcastically. He frowned, and she gave him a look that said, 'If you're deducing me, I will shoot your freaking head'.

"Fine, it's not like I'd need you anyway. I'm just used to having someone there, I guess." Sherlock said, turning away and starting to walk towards the door to leave.

"You know, maybe I'd go if you didn't wake me up when I had the day off and I was on my damn period. But no, that's too hard to deduce apparently." She muttered under her breath, pouring herself a cup of coffee and making it how she like it. She sat on the counter, and began to drink her beverage. He turned right back around, and walked to her quickly, very annoyed.

"I'm sorry, did you just say something?" He said, slowing down as he got closer to her. He stopped right in front of her, putting his hands of either side of her, leaning towards her. "Or was I just hearing things?" He growled. She put her mug down, and wrapped her hands around his neck. She leaned her face towards his, so their foreheads were touching. Her lips just barely touched his.

"You know, I'd kiss you right now if you weren't being so mean. I mean, I'm having really bad mood swings and you're really hot. But you're being rude." She whispered. She moved her mouth close to his ear, putting her cheek against his. "And I said that if you hadn't woken me up when I had the day off and I had my period, I would've gone." She leaned back, smirking, and winked. Her auburn hair had a gold glow around it, considering she was sitting in front of the open window and it was sunny.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but the look on Isabel's face made him close it again. She took her hands away from his neck, reaching to grab her cup. "I'm guessing you have a tendency to tease men so they shut up. It's not nice, either, to be quite honest." He stepped back, looking at the ground.

"No shit, Sherlock. Now shut up, and let me go get dressed. Call Lestrade and tell him I'm coming in after all." She said, hopping off the counter. She walked into her bedroom, and for the first time, he noticed she was wearing _really _short shorts, and a cami that, to him, was a bit revealing. When she walked back out, she was wearing a pair of dark blue skinny jeans with black Converse sneakers, and had a low cut red lacy tank-top on. She walked back into her room, grabbing a black leather jacket. "Alright, let's go." She threw her hair up into a messy-but-put-together layered ponytail, grabbing her keys from the coffee table. "Should I drive?" She asked, walking over to the impatient detective, who looked just about ready to burst.

"You know, that was rather impolite. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do that, thanks." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Yeah, uh, no. You wouldn't appreciate it if I stopped because you wouldn't care. And get used to it, Sunshine, because I'll be doing it a lot more often. Now, back to my question. Am I driving or are we taking a cabbie?" She asked, her hand subconsciously reaching towards a scar on his cheek. It was small, and barely visible, and she cocked her head to the side slightly. The moment she realized what she was doing, she quickly moved her hand from his cheekbone to her arm as she nervously rubbed it. She felt awkward and hoisted herself back onto the counter. Sherlock, however, seemed completely unfazed from her action.

"Why don't we take a cabbie, it'll be faster." Sherlock said, walking back towards the door.

"Uh, no it won't. And I'm not going to make you pay 60 pounds just because I drove you somewhere for 10 minutes. Come on, let's go." Isabel said, sighing as she walked out to the car. He told her where to go, and as soon as he said the address, her face froze in an expression of shock.

There was a murder at her old flat, and everyone who was in it at the time was killed.

When she had completely processed the thought, she remained silent, even so that her breath couldn't be heard. Though at that point she may've not even had a breath, she may as well have been dead. The rest of the trip was silent.


	3. Heart Breaking News

When Isabel and Sherlock arrived at the scene, Lestrade walked right over to them. Isabel had tears threatening to spill, and the two men noticed. Sherlock simply scoffed, and Lestrade comforted her a little bit. She pulled herself together, and asked what they knew so far.

"We have identified the bodies. There were 2 women, two men, and a 5-year-old boy. The two women were 24-year-old Mary Young and 29-year-old Sarah Hudson. The two men were 25-year-old John Hudson, Sarah's husband, and 23-year-old Mark Johnson, Mary's boyfriend. The four were planning a party for the child, Freddie Hudson.

"A man broke into the flat at, roughly, 7AM this morning, and shot the women 3 times each in the chest and stomach. He then stabbed the two men 4 times each. Twice in the chest, twice in the stomach. The child was shot once in the chest. The man who broke in then called 999 and turned himself in." Lestrade said. He looked over at Sherlock who had his eyes closed, and when his mind palace.

"Isabel, who did you know out of them?" Sherlock asked, opening his eyes, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Tell me, now!"

"I—I knew all five of them. When I had the day off, I'd watch Freddie, who was a really nice kid. I lived with Mary, and her boyfriend would occasionally come over. I knew Sarah and John from Uni—they were in a lot of my classes. Why?" Isabel asked, worried.

"Was there anyone who hated the four of them, not counting the child, and would be trying to go after you?" He asked.

"No! Not that I know of! Lestrade!" She yelled, pushing Sherlock off of her and walking towards her boss. He looked over at her.

"Yeah? Did you figure something out?" He asked.

"No, I want to know who the man was. I need to see him." She said firmly, making sure what she said was clear. "If I don't, I won't be able to help. If I do, I'll be able to help greatly. Now, what was this man's name?" She demanded, wanting to know who did to four of the people that meant a lot to her.

"His name is Derek Marshall. Do you know him?" Lestrade asked, waiting for her reaction. Isabel closed her eyes, and breathed deep and slowly. She was trembling as she exhaled, her arms tightening and her hands clenched into fists that turned her knuckles pure white. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she bit her lip, trying to hold back sobs.

Turning away, she jogged over to her car, locking herself in. She tried to sob, but only choked on the air she was breathing in. She knew Derek Marshall. She definitely did.

It was her devil of a brother. He was a genius. He was cunning, clever, manipulative, a liar, and so much more. He was always coming up with different schemes he thought he'd get away with. He was plotting murders for people he hated.

But he was constantly trying to get the people Isabel cared about, so he could get to her. She had to get rid of him, no matter what it took.

* * *

She drove Sherlock to Scotland yard, staying completely silent the entire drive. He noticed tears rolling down her cheeks, but couldn't think of anything to say. When they reached the building, Isabel got out and was inside before Sherlock could look up from his phone. She ran to where Derek was.

When he saw her, he grinned, knowing she was furious. He had an innocent look on his face, even though he was handcuffed to the chair he was sitting in. "Hello, dear sister. It has been such a long time since I've seen you. How is my darling Isabel?" He asked sweetly.

"Shut up, Derek. What the hell is wrong with you?" She asked, slamming her hands down on the table in front of him. "You killed a freaking _five-year-old, _but not until you killed the four adults, in front of him. Why? What did he do to you, Derek?" She asked, raising her voice slightly. He just shook his head microscopically, chuckling.

"Oh, Isabel, ignorant, innocent Isabel, you owe me something. And you have for quite a while-10 years. And I want what you owe me. When you give it to me, I'll stop. I promise." He blatantly lied.

"You bastard. I'm not giving you shit. You've killed so many people I care about! You are a _psychopath_! And yet, here I am, trying to tell me why you're doing this. Now tell me the damn reason, Derek. Or I will have no problem killing you myself." She yelled. Her hands balled into fists. She clenched her teeth, her jaw tightening. She looked behind the man in front of her. She saw her mother, whom she hadn't talked to in 8 years. Her cheeks flushed, and she raised her fist. She punched Derek square in the jaw. She pushed him down, still handcuffed, to the floor so he was on his side. She kicked him multiple times in the stomach, in the chest, and once in the face.

He'd have a lot of pain in his upper body for a while.

She walked out, running to where Lestrade and Sherlock were talking.

"Lestrade, Derek... He's my brother... And to be honest, he's been doing this for the past 10 years because I haven't given him something." Isabel said nervously, unsure of how the two men would react.

"What did you owe him that's driven him to kill people you love for the past 10 years? What is of a great value?" Lestrade asked. He was curious as to why her brother would do that.

"I owe him 20,000 pounds." She said quietly. Sherlock looked at her and she looked at the floor.

"Why would you..." He trailed off, cocking his head slightly to the side. Then he looked as if he just had an epiphany. "You owe him that amount because you promised-"

"Sherlock, not right now. I had told him that if he stopped committing crimes, I would give him the money he'd need to get back up on his feet. So he stopped. As I tried to save the money to give it to him, he started killing people I cared about. I refused to give him the money, once I had earned it all. He's been trying to get me to give him it, but I haven't. Now he's set on killing me, I think. I don't know." Isabel said, looking only at Sherlock. "Greg, I have to go. Come on, Sherlock. I'll take you home..." She said, sighing.

She walked out to the car, and got inside. Sherlock got in once she started the car.

"Why am I always wrong about you?" He asked, really not knowing. She shrugged.

"I don't know. I'm not exactly special, so I don't get why you can't. I'm not exactly an open book though, either. I give you the title and summary, and you have to guess from there." She said, closing her eyes and putting her head against the headrest. She turned her head towards him, keeping it on the rest, and opened her eyes. He immediately noticed her eyes were glazed over, and her cheeks were flushed. Her pupils dilated, and she gave a small smile.

"That makes two of us," he murmured, looking at her hand that was on the wheel. "Why are your knuckles bleeding?"

"Oh, I punched Derek... And kicked him multiple times." She stammered.

"Where did you punch him?"

"I punched his jaw, then I kicked his stomach, chest, and face multiple times..." She answered anxiously. What was his reaction going to be?

Isabel reached her left hand out (the one that wasn't bleeding) and caressed his cheek. Blood rushed to where her skin met his, making his cheek a soft pinkish-red. He didn't move, he just gazed into her eyes emotionlessly. She leaned towards him, touching her forehead to his lightly.

"Are you going to tease me again?" He asked with his velvet voice. She shook her head slightly, and just barely touched her lips to his.

Realizing what she was doing, she shot back into her seat, putting her car into drive. She drove to Baker Street, anxious to get out of her car and away from the man she was so close to kissing. She was having a hard time processing everything going on that day. _Stupid hormones,_she thought, rushing into her flat.

* * *

Picking up her phone that was charging in her room, she deleted all of the numbers she would no longer contact. The numbers she memorized by heart, just to have them be forced from her memory.

One thing was for sure. And that was the fact that she was going to have to move on.

The only she didn't know was how she'd do that.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you like this chapter! I know they seem kind of short, but I try to end them when it seems like a good time to do that. Please review, it would make me so happy! :)**


	4. Unintentional Moments

Isabel walked into the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of red wine out of the fridge. She poured herself a glass, and got out ingredients to make sugar cookies.

As she was making the batter, she heard the door to her flat open, and she grabbed a small steak knife as weapon in case she'd need it. She walked towards the living room slowly, holding the knife tightly.

"Who's there?" She yelled, and as soon as she reached the front door, she saw no one. "What the hell?" She shouted. She felt a finger tapping her shoulder, and she screamed, jumping back, ready to stab whoever touched her.

"Well, I didn't think I'd enjoy being stabbed. That would hurt." She heard a deep velvet voice whisper. She looked to see Sherlock, walking towards her room. "Why is there a picture of a soldier in your room? I thought you didn't have a boyfriend or husband." He said. Isabel walked into her room, and picked up the picture.

"That's my dad. I told you he was a soldier the day we met. Now get out of my room!" She hollered, walking back into the kitchen. "Why do you care?"

Sherlock followed her, and sat in a chair at the table. "I was curious. Now, the victims of the scene we were at earlier..." He started, careful of what he was saying.

"What about them?" She asked, blatantly trying to hide her anger and annoyance, while putting the knife away. She put the batter onto cookie sheets, then placed them in the oven. She took a few sips from her wine.

"They were really close you, weren't they?" He asked, and he carefully watched her reaction. Her cheeks flushed, and all of her visible skin became very pales like alabaster. She placed the glass down, and took off her jacket.

"I'll be right back." She whispered. She walked into her room, and didn't come out for at least 5 minutes. When she did, she held a slip of paper. She handed it to Sherlock, who took it reluctantly, looking up at her with a confused expression. "Open it and read." She ordered, taking another pull at her alcohol.

He read the writing, which was just a reminder of an I.O.U for 20,000 pounds. "It's just an I.O.U." He said, like it was nothing of importance.

"You're a consulting detective, correct? You make deductions about everyone and everything you see. What can you deduce about this note, Sherlock?" Isabel asked.

"Well, from the coloring of the paper and the ink smudges, this was probably written 20 years ago. It's been handled quite a few times-you can tell by the creases and folds, and by the tears along the edges. But what does that have to do with anything?" He asked, confused.

"The amount I owed was originally 20 pounds. I was 10, so this was written 16 years ago. Eventually, the amount increased, and I owe Derek 20,000 at this point. He's making it seem like there's more to it, but that's all. Now he thinks I owe him, Sherlock." She said, finishing her wine and pouring another glass. "Do you want some?" She asked, holding up the bottle of Zinfandel.

"I suppose. Six ounces, though. I don't plan on getting drunk." He said, in a tone that didn't quite match his expression.

"I do. I plan on getting wasted." She said, sounding more serious than she intended. When he raised his eyebrows, she realized how it sounded. "I'm just kidding. I just plan on getting a bit tipsy." She said, smiling happily.

Sherlock noticed how her dimples only showed when she smile, and how they were so deep; how her cheekbones were high and prominent. He noticed how her eyes had a blue-green color, though she had not hazel, but gold towards her pupil-it reminded him of a supernova or nebula. Her lips were full, but they weren't too big. She had pale skin, though it was like a peach-color. Her auburn hair, layered and soft, looked like her-he couldn't imagine her with any other hair color.

For the first time in years, he felt something, but he didn't know what. He didn't recognize the emotion, if that was it.

Isabel looked back at him, and had a worried expression on her face. She handed him his glass, and bent down so she was face to face with him.

"You okay, Detective? Because, unless I'm wrong, you're staring at me. Something up?" She asked. He took the glass and smiled slightly. He took a few sips and put the glass down.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why do you ask?" Isabel looked at him and shook her head. She sat down next to him and pulled her chair close to his. Putting her hand softly on his knee. She moved her hand from his knee to his cheek. Her touch was as light as a feather; her hand felt cold against his warm skin. Her expression changed from happy to worried within a minute. She promptly pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, where his skin felt hot.

"Oi, mate, you feel a bit warm. I'm going to grab a thermometer and I'll be right back, okay?" She said, touching his neck with her hand for a second before walking off into the bathroom. When she came back, she told Sherlock to relax. She pressed the thermometer right behind his ear, pushing his dark hair back. "Oi, you've got a temp. 100.5. Why don't you go lay down on my bed so I don't have to constantly run up and down the stairs until John gets home. Come on." She said, helping him up and making sure he was comfortable on the bed. She grabbed a pair of yoga leggings and a cami and went into the bathroom to change. When she came back, she threw her hair into a messy bun.

"Sit up and move forward a little." Isabel ordered, and Sherlock looked at her as if to ask why. She glared at him, making him do as she said. She sat right behind him, her knees on either side of him. She rubbed his shoulders gently but firmly, relaxing the muscles.

"What are you doing?" He asked, turning around to face her.

"My mum was a massage therapist. She taught me how to relax muscles and relieve people of stress and anxiety by massaging certain pressure points. Trust me, I've been doing this since I was 14 years old. Now let me do this." She said, laughing. Sherlock turned back around, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander. Isabel's hands moved to his neck, her thumbs softly pressing against the skin. After thirty minutes, her hands had traveled along most of his back, getting rid of all the knots.

When he opened his eyes, he realized that Isabel was softly singing to herself in French. He recognized the rhythm, but couldn't translate the lyrics. After a minute he realized she was still rubbing his back. When she stopped, she stood up and walked over to her vanity, grabbing a bottle of lotion. She smiled at him, showing that the lotion was unscented.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked, gazing into her eyes. No one had treated him like this in years, and he didn't know why someone would.

"I'm sorry? What do you mean?" She replied, hiving him a puzzled look.

"Why are you being nice?" He said, rephrasing the question so it was more clear. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it. She threw the bottle onto the bed softly. She sat down behind him in her original spot with her legs crossed. He turned around to look at her.

"Okay, why am I being nice. Uh, maybe because that's how people are supposed to be. Sherlock, I know people have been intimidated, because you're so smart. People may think you're arrogant and self righteous, because you get so mad when you're wrong because you're so used to being right. You've never had many friends, I know that. I haven't either, I know what it's like. You're anti-social, and it gets to you. You may think that there's nothing wrong with you. Maybe there isn't, but the fact that you don't understand why people are nice to you, that... That says something.

"Maybe Molly likes you, just like Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade and I, but people are giving up on trying to be nice, Sherlock, they are. They'll try and be nice, and then you either won't let them or don't realize it and think they have bad intentions. I would know because I've seen you while I was working. The way you move around people, your body language... It comes off as if you're constantly on guard. I realize theses things and I know them because I was like that too. Hell, maybe on occasion I still am, but that doesn't mean that's me 24/7.

"Your whole damn life you've been avoiding people. Maybe because you're afraid of rejection. Maybe because they aren't as intelligent as you are. Maybe no one understands. But I do, Sherlock, I do. I know what it's like to feel like an outcast. I know what it's like to be afraid of rejection, to be afraid that people will hate you because of who you are. I was for so long, and those were the worst years of my life. Starting in high school, with so much more people. With more expectations that are hard to reach. Groups that are hard to fit into. People that are hard to believe and to trust. But you need to let people in, to let people trust you. Because they do. That's why Lestrade is calling you for a case so often. That's why I'm here, trying to help you, even though you're refusing. I want you to know what it's like to have someone to go to. Because it sucks not having that one person." Isabel finished, trying to get him to understand that he needed to let people be nice.

Sherlock looked down, running a hand through his hair. What could he say? That he was fine, not having anyone to talk to when something was wrong? That he didn't need people to be nice to him?

Isabel gingerly put her hand on the back of his neck. He turned towards her, and she put her forehead against his. She closed her eyes, their noses just touching.

"Are you trying to tease me again?" He asked, his baritone voice hushed in a whisper. She shook her head, and pressed her lips against his. Her free hand ran through his hair, her fingers getting tangled in his curls. She moved her other hand from his neck to his hair, doing the same as the other, keeping him in place. His hands moved to her waist, gently trying to push her away.

She leaned back, her eyes opened wide, her lips forming a small 'o' in shock. She bit her lip nervously, standing up.

"Shit. Wha... What was I... Bloody hell." She muttered under her breath. She pulled her hair from its bun, letting it fall down her back and over her shoulders. She grabbed a brush, trying to brush out whatever knots were there. She checked her phone, all the while Sherlock remained completely silent.

* * *

When John came home he saw Sherlock laying on the couch, his fingers forming a steeple just under his chin.

"So, uh, Isabel messaged me." John said, walking into his bedroom to put his jacket away. "She told me you had a fever."

"Oh, right. Did she tell you anything else?" Sherlock asked, wondering if she mentioned their little 'moment'. John thought about it for a second.

"I can't remember. Just a second." He said, checking his phone to see if she did. "Yeah, Sherlock, she did."

"What did she mention?"

"Apparently she's sorry, but she didn't say why she is." John said, looking confused. "Do you know why?"

"Yes. I do. She doesn't need to apologize, though, because I don't blame her." Sherlock said, assuming John would know what had happened just a few hours before.

"What did she do?" John asked.

"She kissed me."

John had a look of utter confusion on his face. He looked at Sherlock, who still had his eyes closed. "Really? Did she say why?"

"No, though I'm assume it's because of her hormones. 'That time of the month' apparently." Sherlock said, as if it did not matter at all. "It is nothing of importance, and it never will be."

10 minutes had passed, and John still didn't know what to say. Why is a girl kissing _Sherlock_ nothing of importance?

_'He has no emotions whatsoever, does he?'_ John thought. A little while later, he brushed the thought aside and decided to go relax. He contemplated asking Isabel about what had happened between the two, but ultimately decided against it. Whatever had happened, it should stay between them two until they were comfortable enough to bring it up themselves. He went into his room, listening to the rain beginning to pour as he slipped into a deep slumber.

* * *

**A/N: I tried writing this chapter (literally) 5 times, because the internet kept going out when I tried to save whatever I had written. Thank God that the WiFi decided to stay on as I typed, so I was able to save all 2100+ words. I originally had a fanfic that, on Microsoft Word, was FOUR freaking pages long. I used that to write a new chapter, then deleted all 4,000+ words, and tried to write this one. I've been trying to write this one since I published the third. Took long enough. **

**I'll try to update multiple times a week, but my WiFi gives out a lot, so it'll be a bit irregular. ****Anyway, please favorite/follow and review**!


	5. Awkward Encounters

Isabel woke up Saturday morning to the sound of thunder booming in the distance. She sat up, checking the time on her alarm clock: 5 AM. She had to be at work in two hours, and she could tell that it wouldn't be easy getting there. She hopped in the shower, enjoying the warmth of the hot water rushing down her skin. When she got out, she noticed a slip of paper taped to the wall. Not bothering to read it, she threw it out, and walked into her room to get ready for the day.

* * *

She slipped on her black lace tights, putting on her red pencil skirt. She looked for her white ruffled shirt, running about the flat in a rush. Once she found it, she tucked it into her skirt, and put on a black blazer. Slipping on her high heels, she walked into the kitchen, and made a cup of coffee. As she was drinking the warm beverage, she heard a knock at the door. She answered it to see John standing there, looking shocked.

"Something wrong?" Isabel asked, unsure if it was her (somewhat) low-cut top or Sherlock. She preferred the latter of the two.

"No, I was um... I was just wondering if you could drive me to Scotland Yard? Since it seems you're going to work today?" He said, gesturing slightly with his hand to her outfit. He looked her up and down quickly, not wanting her to think he was flirting. "You, uh, you look nice today, Isabel."

"Thanks. And, yeah, I guess I can drive you down. Is there a certain time you have to be there?" She smiled, glancing at the clock in the kitchen. "Because I'm going to leave for work in about... 20 minutes. I was going to see if Sherlock needed to come, since he's there almost every day anyways." She sighed, and realized John was still standing in the doorway. "Why don't you just go sit down for a bit. I have to find my binder of..." She trailed off, looking irritated.

"The binder of reports you handed to Sherlock to correct? Because he brought those to Lestrade yesterday, apparently." John said, sitting on the couch.

"Oh. I'll have to um, thank him, then." She said awkwardly. "Do you want any tea?" She asked, clearly uncomfortable with the current situation.

"No, thanks. I'm good. By the way, Sherlock forgave you for... whatever you... did. He said he doesn't blame you." John said. He looked at her as if to ask what she had done, except she was in her room, putting on some makeup.

"Did he say who he blamed? Or, more likely, _what_ he blamed?" She asked, walking back out and slipping on her promise ring.

"He blamed your hormones..." John said.

"Oh. Okay." Isabel smiled, but John seemed perplexed as to what they were talking about. "Is... Something wrong?"

John thought about it for a moment, opening his mouth but closing it before speaking multiple times. "I just... He's seemed a bit odd... More than he usually is, since I came home yesterday. He's refusing to speak a word about his... visit... here. I'm just extremely lost." He said, giving up on waiting for them two to bring it up themselves. Isabel looked down, realizing that he knew what happened. She glanced at the clock, realizing she had to leave.

"I'll explain on the way to Scotland Yard. Whatever you do, just don't mention it to him, okay? Because even I'm regretting it, and I really... I don't regret things I've done... Well, most of them, anyway." She grabbed her purse, fishing her keys out. "Let's go, I have to be there in 20 minutes."

* * *

10 minutes of silence had passed, with Isabel focusing on the road, and John staring out his window, lost in thought.

"Alright, I'm guessing you know I kissed Sherlock." She said, looking at John for a moment before looking back at the road. "John?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, he told me." He said, feeling both intrusive and curious.

"Figures. And I'm assuming you're wondering why."

"A little. Sherlock's never talked about girls in a sense that shows he fancies one. And suddenly, he's kissing one."

"Alright, so I'll catch you up to speed, okay? Mate, this'll be kind of... Odd, I guess, I don't know." She suddenly swerved, and John realized a car had almost hit hers. "Oi, Mate, watch where the hell you're going!" She hollered.

By the time they reached Scotland Yard, John had been informed of the events of the previous night, except for the kiss.

"So, after I gave that little speech about him not letting anyone into his life, I said, 'I want you to know what it's like to have someone to go to. Because not having that one person really sucks. Then... I kissed him." Isabel said, walking into the building. After she checked in, she put her purse on her desk, and went to go find Lestrade. When she saw he wasn't in his office, the first person she went to was Dimmock.

"Oi, Dimmock! D'you know where Greg is?" She asked, walking up behind him and tapping him on his shoulder. "He's not in his little-"

"Isabel!" A male voice bellowed. She turned around to see her boss running up to her. "Where are the reports? I need them!" He looked disheveled, as if he'd been running for miles.

"Watson told me Sherlock gave them to you! Where the hell's the bloke?" She said angrily. Lestrade shrugged, not bothering to ask why Sherlock had the files. Not that it was a good idea, anyways.

Isabel stormed off to her desk, and saw the binder she'd been looking for not even 5 minutes before. She opened it, seeing a sticky note on the first page.

_What you did distracted me while I was trying to fix these. I couldn't stop thinking about it. So don't do it again. -SH_

"Go bloody figure." She muttered under breath, smoothing her skirt and sitting down. She didn't have much to do that day, so she thought about how she could pass the time. A few minutes later, she took a piece of blank white paper, and found her charcoal pencil. She drew a rough sketch of Toronto's skyline, smudging the marks where the water would be. After a minute, she stopped drawing and just looked at the picture. She felt the urge to tear it and crumple it into a ball and throw it away, but she couldn't. She sighed and started randomly typing on the computer, her fingers spelling every word that came to her mind as if they were under no control.

"What are you typing?" A man said. Isabel jumped, and quickly closed the application she was using. She turned around to see Anderson standing behind her, grinning. "Is it for the freak?"

"Anderson, I swear to God, that if you _don't _start leaving me _alone_ like I've told you _10 times_, I will personally go to your house, and I will torture you. Now go bother Donovan, you bugger." She threatened, standing up and walking away. Anderson stayed at her desk, and saw the sticky note in the open binder. He picked it up and ran over to her, spinning her around by her shoulder. "What the hell, Anderson! I told you not even five minutes ago to leave me alone!" Isabel yelled.

"What's this, then, love?" He asked, holding up the sticky note. She looked down at it, then back up at him in shock and irritation.

"Where did you get this?" She asked.

"Your desk. Now tell me, love, what you did to the Freak to make him unable to concentrate? Was it bad?" Anderson asked, knowing he sounded nosy but enjoying it.

"Don't call me love, Idiot. And it's not any of your damn business, now, is it? Now go on, go bother someone else, okay?" She said, pushing him away, tucking the sticky note in her blazer's inner pocket. She walked back over to her desk, tapping a pencil absently.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

Upon arriving home, Isabel immediately slipped her heels off and walked into her flat. She opened the door to see Sherlock sitting on the couch. She jumped a little and gasped, closing the door behind her. He looked up to her, his phone in his hands.

"Why are you home early?" He asked, standing up and walking towards her. She stood perfectly still, her heels still in her hand. "You're not supposed to be out till 6."

"Why the hell are you in my house?" She retorted. He smirked, looking her up and down. Considering this was all Anderson did, she wasn't fazed.

"Good question. Why is Anderson flirting with you?" Sherlock asked, suddenly switching his facial expression to the typical emotionless stare. "You have something he wants, don't you?" He said, turning around and walking into the kitchen. "And he won't leave you alone because of it, so you came home early, telling Lestrade that you felt a bit ill. You just wanted to get away from his constant harassment." Isabel just walked in after him, trying hard to laugh at what he said.

"Oh, yeah, I have something he wants. I have the female human anatomy. And, actually, I get out of work at 3 PM, but I go out with my friend, Melody, after work. But today I couldn't, because I had brought John with me. So I figured I'd just bring him home with me. I didn't have much to do today anyways." She said, chuckling softly. He really didn't understand her, as far as she could tell. Why was she so different?

"It's not funny. I'm assuming you saw the note, correct?" He said, glaring at her. She suddenly quieted herself, nodding slowly. She looked down at the ground, her auburn hair framing her hidden face. He looked at her, and slowly walked towards her, approaching her carefully. "Did you permanently dye your hair?" He asked quietly. She looked up at him and slightly nodded, giving him a small smile. Something about his expression made her wonder if he seemed a little worried, but she simply shrugged the thought off, knowing that this was _Sherlock Holmes_, a man that, according to almost everyone, had no emotions.

"I, um, thought it looked better than my natural color... So I dyed it. Why, does it... Look bad? Do you not like it?" She asked, suddenly self conscious. He shrugged, and she hoped that he was at least not bothered by it. "Back to my original question, how did you-"

"Picked the lock." Sherlock interrupted, making it seem as though it was the most obvious thing. He walked past her, sitting on the couch. "Now, tell me, why'd you do it?"

"Do, what?"

"Don't ask that. You know what you did."

"I'm sorry, for one, I'm not good with people. You would not believe the amount of sexual frustration I have had. I acted on impulse. Okay, you've got your reason. What else do you want?" She said, sighing and sitting down next to him. He glanced at her for a minute, pursed his lips, then closed his eyes, looking defeated.

"John wants me to apologize." He sighed.

"Why?"

"Exactly. So let's say I did, and everything is the same again."

"What do you mean, 'the same again'?"

"You can go back to flirting with Anderson." Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I saw you two 'talking' when I left the binder on your desk." Isabel huffed and stood up.

"Excuse me, but I am not the one flirting. He's been basically harassing me. I've told him to leave me alone so many times even God doesn't know. That's a lot. Can you cover up a murder like the bugger says you can?" She said, giving a crooked smile. He thought for a minute, and shook his head. "Well, then you're of no use to me. Now, leave, like I told you who knows how long ago." She showed him the door, and he softly put his hand on her shoulder as he walked towards it. He leaned his head so his lips were just barely touching her ear.

"Mm, but I _am _of use to you. Don't kill the man, I'll tell Lestrade if you don't." He whispered in her ear with his velvet voice. She shivered slightly, biting her lip, as he pulled back to look at her.

"How are you useful to me?" She questioned.

"You'll find out soon enough." He winked. As he started walking out the door, she yelled at him.

"You son of a-" She was cut off by him closing the door. She heard him running up the stairs, laughing. She sighed. "This will be one Hell of a week."


	6. Good News, Bad News

"Lestrade! I need to talk to you!" Sherlock yelled, walking into the man's office.

"Sherlock, we talked about this… I'll let you know when there's a case and we need you." Lestrade said, heaving a big sigh. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"It's about Isabel." He muttered. Lestrade's eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly. He cleared his throat, changing his expression to one of curiosity.

"What's wrong with Iz?" He asked, leaning forward a bit. Sherlock sat down, and folded his arms across his chest.

"I was talking to her yesterday, and she said Anderson wouldn't leave her alone. She's told him multiple times—she's actually lost track—to leave her alone, but he hasn't stopped. He keeps flirting with her, and she's feeling as if she's being harassed. I suggest you talk to Anderson about this situation and set him straight before I do. Because we both know how that will turn out." Sherlock said darkly. Lestrade cleared his throat again, thinking about what to say. He simply nodded, letting the tall man know that he'd talk to Anderson.

* * *

Isabel walked into Scotland, sighing. She knew that Anderson was most likely going to harass her again, so she was surprised when she didn't see him running up to her. She walked over to Lestrade, who was talking to Donovan.

"Um, Greg, where's... Where's Anderson?" She asked, hoping he wasn't here. Lestrade looked t her, grinning, while Donovan frowned a bit.

"Iz, Sherlock told me about Anderson. And I told him to leave you alone, because, considering this is a police department, he shouldn't be so... Consistent." Lestrade said, not able to think of a better word.

"And, I may have told him off myself. That's not right." Sally said, her lips a thin line. She looked down, and Isabel knew that she'd have to thank her when she got the chance. Right now wasn't exactly the best time.

"I didn't actually think Sherlock would tell you." The secretary said, staring at Greg in amazement. "That's the last thing I'd expect him to do."

"Well, you never know with that man. I'll admit, he's a bit of an odd one, but, he's extremely helpful when it comes to the cases." He said, smiling, "I have to go and check to make sure there isn't anything else I have to do." Lestrade walked off, knowing what was about to happen.

"Sally, thanks. I honestly wouldn't have expected that. You telling him off, I mean. It helps a bit." Isabel said, not quite sure how it helped, but feeling like it did. Donovan nodded and walked away.

Another uneventful day was upon the horizon.

* * *

Sherlock heard the door to Isabel's flat opening, and noticed it was only noon. He opened his door and slowly walked out, descending the stairs two at a time. He saw a cascade of brownish-orange hair flowing down a woman's back, and realized that, for some reason, Isabel was home early. She looked back and saw him. She smiled as she opened her door, gesturing for him to come in. As soon as he closed the door, she hugged him tightly, breathing in the earthy scent of him.

"Thank you." She murmured, and he reluctantly wrapped his arm around her waist, confused abut her actions.

"For what?" He asked, and she pulled away, blushing.

"You told Lestrade about Anderson. And he didn't show up today." She said, smiling. He tried not to smirk as he noticed she was embarrassed. She walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine.

"It's not 10 AM, Sherlock." She winked. "To Anderson not being at work!" She shouted, raising the glass and sipping it quickly. He sighed, and walked over to her, pulling the wine from her grasp.

"Doesn't mean it's not too early, Isabel." He said, pouring the wine down the sink.

"_It's always five o'clock somewhere!_" She said, a big smile upon her face, making the skin around her eyes wrinkle. It made her look younger to Sherlock. For a few minutes, she didn't look like the 28 year old woman who had lost most of her friends a week before; she didn't seem like the anxious woman that sat around waiting for her brother to come and... murder her. Just so he could have the money he thinks he deserves.

_"Lestrade, Derek... He's my brother."_

_"And I think he's going to kill me. I don't know when."_

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" Isabel said softly, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. He felt like he was convulsing, like his bones were bound to shatter from him shaking while standing. He took a few deep breaths in, relaxing himself somewhat. She slid her hand slowly to his neck, caressing his jawline with her thumb with a feather-light touch. "Are you okay?"

"Do you remember the day I took you with me for the case, and you found out the suspect was your brother?" He whispered. She dropped her hand slowly, wringing it with the other one. She took a sharp breath in.

"Yes. I do... Why?"

"What did you tell Lestrade about him?"

"That I believe he plans on killing me." She said, looking down. Sherlock told her he'd be right back, and walked out, running to his flat to get John.

When he came back, John walked in, looking annoyed. Sherlock sat on the couch, along with his blogger, and Isabel just sat on the edge of the coffee table. Sherlock told John about the whole case. When John asked Sherlock why he was down here with them, they both looked at the woman.

"John... The suspect of the murders... Is my brother. And I-I think he's planning my demise." She said, wishing this could all be over with. She didn't want to worry, but what choice did she have? "All because he thinks I owe him 20,000 pounds."

"He's your brother. Yet... He wants to kill you?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"I find it odd that he's her brother, because he looks kind of like Moriarty." Sherlock said. "Oh my God." He looked at John, with a look of shock on his face. John's eyes widened, and he ran a hand down his face.

"He can't be Moriarty, though, Sherlock! The man's been dead for 3 years!" John yelled. Sherlock looked back at Isabel, who looked like she was about to cry.

"Isabel, when did your brother move to the UK?" He asked, firmly grasping her shoulders. She looked at him with tears starting to run down her cheeks.

"3 years ago." She said, beginning to gasp for breath.

Her brother was Derek Marshall. His alias was Jim Moriarty.

And Isabel was going to kill him herself.

Even if it killed her.

* * *

**A/N: Ooh! Cliffhanger! I really wasn't planning on bringing Moriarty into this, but I just _had_ too, at this point. I will start writing the next chapter and hopefully have it up by tomorrow. Monday at the latest. If you ever have any suggestions, feel free to say them. Or... Type them. Please review, it makes me all giddy inside!**


	7. Regretting Decisions Made

**A/N: Everyone who said they weren't expecting the reaction the made for the previous chapter: I'm hoping it was a good one. I had asked my editor (who's my bffff) what I should have done for it. I told her what happened in the fifth chapter, and she asked if I was planning on bringing Moriarty into it. I said I wouldn't. **

**Whoops. I hadn't even thought about bringing him into it until she mentioned it, and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like I needed to, to add some angst. I'll definitely bring in my own masterpieces who may or may not be evil too.**

**You'll just have to find out. Anyway, thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, and/or followed this story. I'm planning on making this a series, but we'll see how it turns out. More Sherbel (Sherlock/Isabel) fluff to come your way!**

* * *

For the next three days, Anderson never showed up to work, and at that point, Isabel thought he'd been fired. As much as she hated to admit it, Anderson was one of the best forensic analysts Scotland Yard had. But she was somewhat happy, because now he couldn't bother her.

* * *

Two weeks after Derek Marshall was arrested, he was to go to trial. Isabel wanted to stay home, in fear she may have an anxiety or panic attack. Sherlock and John went in her place, though they didn't testify. It seemed like an easy trial: Derek turned himself in, confessed, pleaded guilty, and every single piece of evidence from every murder he committed all pointed to him.

An hour after Sherlock and John had left, Isabel started pacing around her flat, chewing nervously at her lip. Minutes later she finally noticed, but only because it was starting to bleed and was raw in some areas. She stopped, and searched the kitchen for gum. Not able to find any, she resorted to going to the corner store a few blocks away.

She threw on a hoodie, hoping the early October breeze wasn't too cold. She stepped outside, and started jogging to the little store. When she got there, she bought a few packs of gum and a pack of cigarettes. She wasn't addicted to them-she only had one here and there to calm herself of anxiety. She also bought a lighter, just in case. She started to walk back home, lighting a cigarette and smoking it. She dropped the cigarette, crushing it with her sneakers, when she reached the door to step inside. As she unlocked it, she saw two men running towards her.

Before she could see who they were, one of them had tackled her to the ground, and she noticed it was Sherlock, hovering over her, looking frightened.

"What the hell was that for!" She yelled, trying to push him off her. He stood up, offering his hand. "I can get up myself." She muttered, slowly standing back up. She walked a little closer to him, raising her hand slowly. Sherlock thought she was going to kiss him again.

But that wasn't what she had in mind. She slapped him in the face, and she noticed for the first time that John was right behind him.

"The trial's over. The jury already decided on a verdict." Sherlock said, bringing his hand to his face, rubbing the stinging skin of his cheek. "He' guilty."

"What's his sentence?" She asked, looking at John. He lowered his head for a moment, then looked back at her, scratching the back of his neck.

"5 years, no parole. He can be bailed out though. With 3,000 pounds, cash. But, with what he's done, I don't think that anyone'll try to save that much to save him." John shrugged, as if it didn't matter.

"He has henchmen, John. Do your research. This _Moriarty _we're talking about!" Sherlock exclaimed, making I clear that it _did_, in fact, _matter._ "What would make you think this isn't a big deal?"

"Whatever, just shut up, both of you. I'm sure that John believes Moriarty's henchmen are all dead. They may be, the may not. No one really knows, because they've all got some stupid secret identity. I would expect you to know that of all people, Sherlock. Now come on, lets' get inside." Isabel said impatiently. She unlocked the door, walking into her flat. The two men followed her inside, but John went into his flat.

Sherlock stayed with Isabel.

"Why do you smell like cigarettes?" He asked, closing the door. She looked at him and took the pack out of her sweatshirt pocket, careful not to give it to him.

"Yeah, don't think I don't know about your drug habits." She said, in a somewhat threatening tone. She put it back in her pocket.

"Lestrade?" He asked.

"Yup." She said, popping the 'p' with her lips. She winked and walked into the kitchen. "So, why aren't you up in our flat? Don't you have some case to work on as always?"

"I've been suspended for a few weeks..." He said, rubbing the back of his neck. He walked into the kitchen, leaning on the doorway.

"Why?" She had no idea as to what could have caused him to be suspended.

"Let's say that I happened to be in a horrid mood one day, and Anderson happened to be degraded someone I knew." He said, gazing at her with his signature emotionless look.

"Do I want to know who he was degrading? Or no?" She asked, laughing a small bit. She turned to face him and noticed his expression. "Oh."

"Yes. His injuries happened to be... Quite bad." He said, slipping his black coat off and hanging it on the coat rack in the living room.

"What was he saying that was so bad, that made you hurt him?" She asked incredulously. Anderson may have been bad, but he was never _that_ bad. Well, to her, he didn't seem like it. Sherlock shook his head.

"Never mind. It is not important." He muttered, waving the conversation away with his hand. Isabel sighed, going to the fridge for a cold bottle of beer.

"Want one?" She asked, holding a second bottle out to him. He cringed ever so slightly.

"I do not drink beer. Nor do I drink any type of hard liquor. It damages the brain cells." He said, not bothering to hide his disgust. She shrugged, saying that there was more for her then, and opened the bottle.

"By the way, beer isn't hard liquor. Hard liquor is more whiskey, rum, vodka... Tequila too. I make really good margaritas." She said, smiling. She nursed the drink, and sat on the counter, putting the bottle down next to her. "No, I'm not an alcoholic." She said, showing Sherlock she knew what he was thinking.

"That's what Harry said, but she's one." He muttered, squinting at the bottle she was holding.

"I'm serious. I've only started drinking a few months ago. I don't... _Rely..._ On alcohol. I'm not having a drink every ten minutes. Now would you kindly shut the hell up." She said jokingly, knowing he'd roll his eyes.

"Whatever you say." He said sarcastically. He thought about something for a few minutes, just staring blankly at Isabel. What she didn't realize though, was he was staring at her lips, her eyes. He was studying how her full lips were slightly swollen from the beer, and her eyes staring up at the ceiling, wishing for something she knew wouldn't happen.

She didn't feel the odd sensation people have when someone's staring at them. She didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable. She actually forgot that Sherlock was there, wishing that she could be back in Toronto with her mum and dad.

But as long as her brother was alive, she wasn't going to be going anywhere.

And that fact bothered her to the core.

* * *

Isabel was sat on the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her. In the past 2 hours, she downed 3 beers, just enough to make her drunk. Well, not exactly drunk, but not really tipsy. She felt a pang of pain in her head, and she struggled to stand up. She tried reaching for the countertop to support her. Once she regained her balance, she looked over at her bedroom, noticing a shadow in the dim light. She stumbled over, finally reaching the door. She noticed it was Sherlock, and she automatically tried to give him a drunken hug. Except, she stumbled and he caught her. He laid her down on her bed. She sat up and kneeled on the mattress.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close to her. He noticed that there was about half a centimeter of space between them. He looked down at her, reluctantly wrapping his arms around her waist loosely, just in case she fell again. She bit her lip, looking down at Sherlock's lips.

"I wanna tell you a secret." She said, her voice in a hushed tone. "I think that you look really good. Especially when you leave the first few top buttons open and I can see your chest. Your hair is like... Wicked soft too." She slurred, somehow able to sound kind of normal, even though she was drunk. Sherlock smirked, knowing she was only saying this because she was drunk. She threaded her thin fingers through his hair, tangling her hands.

Before he could say anything, Isabel's lips were on his. He thought he would have tasted the alcohol on her lips, but he couldn't. He Hough she would have been rough and forceful, but she wasn't. Her lips moved softly and slowly, not quick and harshly. Her eyes stayed closed while his stayed open. How was he supposed to react?

He wasn't going to do anything he'd regret in the morning, or anything she'd regret. He knew she was dunk, so she wouldn't even remember kissing him, once again, in the morning. He would, and he'd have to act like nothing happened. But what if she asked? She was going to have a hangover in the morning, even if it wasn't that bad.

She was going to want answers. But, quite frankly, she most likely wouldn't be getting the true one. He could lie to her, say that she got drunk and he could hear her crashing against the floor in her flat every time she took a step, so he put her to bed. Or John did. But he wasn't focusing on that.

He was focusing on the fact that, at this point, _he was kissing her back_. He had to admit, he liked the electric, tingly feeling he got. But this wasn't what he wanted. He didn't know about her though. So he slid his arms back so his hands were on her hips. He pushed her away, and he hoped for the same reaction she had last time.

She smiled instead though, biting her lip, hoping it would make him want _more_. He sighed and had her lay down, much to her dismay.

He was going to regret everything, wasn't he? No, he was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

He wasn't going to regret this.

* * *

Isabel awoke the next morning to a dark room, and heard rain pouring outside. She checked the clock: 8:30 AM. Thank God she had weekends off. Her head spun when she sat up too quick, and she felt her head well up with a splitting headache. She looked at the table next to her bed and noticed it had an ice cold glass of water and two aspirin. She gratefully swallowed the pills, downing the water as if she hadn't had a drink in years. Her throat was itching, and she laid back down, hoping the pain in her head would numb soon.

She heard footsteps walking to her room, and was surprised when she saw John standing in her doorway. He gave a look as if asking for permission to come in. She nodded slightly, wincing at the way it hurt. He walked in slowly and sat on the edge of her bed, with a knowing look on his face.

"How much did you drink last night?" He asked softly, knowing if he talked any louder she'd only be in more pain.

"3 beers..." She muttered, her voice hoarse and dry. Her throat was sore, feeling raw from the alcohol.

"I'd stay away from the drinks for now. Just so you don't do anything you'd regret later." He whispered, concern laced with his words. "Because, as much as I hate to say it, you did something yesterday. Not horrible, mind you, but it wasn't exactly good, either. Sherlock had a... hard time concentrating on sleeping." He replied softly. When Isabel gave him a confused look, he laughed quietly.

"Isabel... You kissed Sherlock. And he kissed you. Apparently, it lasted only a few moments." John murmured, looking at the woman somberly. She sighed as though she was disappointed and wanted to forget anything ever happened. She groaned, asking when the medication would finally kick in.

"When did you take it?" He asked, looking at his watch. Isabel noticed that it was the one she gave him a little over week ago. She grinned, knowing that spending a good amount of her money paid off.

"8:30." She moaned, obviously in pain. "You're a doctor, right? Can't you make it go away?" She asked, still sounding pretty drunk.

"No, I can't. Sorry, love." He said, walking over to her and brushing the hair off of her face. She gave a content sigh, and he smiled slightly. "Do you want me to bring Sherlock down so you can talk to him?" He asked, somewhat hoping she'd say yes. Sherlock had been a bit off since he came upstairs last night. He was distracted quite a bit, of course, but he seemed... Happier. Like when he got a new case to work on.

"Yeah, I think I should talk to him. Can you help me up?" She inquired, pulling the sheets off of her body and reaching her hand out to him. He took her hand, helping her slowly sit up, and within a few minutes, she was standing. He helped her walk into her kitchen, where she clumsily made a cup of coffee. "Does coffee actually help with hangovers?" She asked, looking at the doctor. He shrugged, saying it's not exactly a cure, per say, but it helps quite a bit.

He left with a wave, and went to go get Sherlock, who ran down the stairs and practically blew through the closed door. He rushed over to her sitting figure, sipping at the warm drink. He sat down next to her, with a furious look on his face.

"Why did you do that?" He shouted, his voice ringing with anger, making her head pound again. She clutched at her head, tangling her fingers in her hair.

"I was drunk, Sherlock. Now shut up, my head is killing me." She muttered, annoyed at his sudden but somehow expected outburst. He gave her an incredulous look, questioning how that was anywhere near an excuse.

"Isabel, you're obviously not dying. You're breathing, and you're not in the hospital. Don't say you are, it makes you sound like Anderson." He retorted, looking at Isabel's face, ghostly white. She appeared to be shaking, not so much to the point it looked like a seizure, but enough that it was clearly noticeable. Her eyelids were shut tight, her hands looking as though they'd shatter if she gripped her hair any tighter. She brought her knees up to her chest, laying her head between them. She wrapped her arms around her legs, gripping the thin fabric of her pants.

"Don't you _fucking dare _say that. He basically harassed me everyday and I don't fucking think it's a good idea for you to compare me to him because I'm nothing like that moron. Now tell me, were my friends in the hospital when they died? Was my dad in the hospital when he died? Everyone breathes, Sherlock, even while they're dying, unless they're suffocating. But that's different. No, they weren't my friends died in a god damned flat! My dad died in a hostage situation and if you think it's the best idea to tell me they weren't, I have three words for you." She said, raising her head to meet his eyes, standing up and closing the 4 feet of distance they had. She grabbed his collar, bringing his face towards hers. "_Go to hell._" She growled, letting go of him and forcing him backwards. He breathed in deeply, inhaling and exhaling as he thought about the night before.

His expression softened suddenly, completely opposite to what Isabel's. She started to walk into the living room, mug in hand, and sat on the couch. He slowly walked over to her, reluctantly sitting down a meter away from her on the sofa. She looked at him, tears in her eyes, and set the mug down on the coffee table. She sat back down, right next to him, and put her hand on his. He looked at her, hoping that she was still a little drunk. She rested her hand on his cheek, brushing his cheekbone, as if mesmerized by it. He felt some emotion, he didn't know what, and he recognized it.

He felt the same thing the first time they'd kissed. He still pondered, thinking over what it could be, and why he was feeling it. Surely, she wasn't infatuated with him. It'd only been... What? 2 weeks? She couldn't have possibly fallen for him. Sure, she'd seen him while she was working and they may or may not have made small talk on occasion while Lestrade was busy at the moment. But they never properly introduced themselves. He usually would voice his deductions about people bustling about the department, and she'd tell him what was right and wrong, as far as she knew.

"I didn't mean that," She said, and Sherlock realized she was still drunk, even if it was just a bit. She had an apologetic look on her face, and he gave a small smile. She rested her head on his shoulder. "I mean, I'm still pretty drunk."

"I thought you didn't plan on getting 'wasted'. Only a little 'tipsy'." He remembering the thought of her, drinking some wine, smiling happily as though she had not a single care in the world.

The difference here was she was extremely emotional, going from sad, to furious, to regret and hope, all in a few minutes. She was a mess, he had to admit. Her hair was knotted, giving some form of indication that she had a restless night with sleep. She was still wearing the hoodie and jeans from yesterday, the scent of cigarettes lingering on the cloth.

He wanted John to be there instead of him. Sherlock wasn't good with moral support, and he didn't have a clue as to how he could've helped in this situation. John, on the other hand, most likely would. She looked up at him, her head still against his bony shoulder. She gazed at his lips for a little bit, and he noticed her pupils dilated.

"Is something wrong?" She asked, looking up at him with concern.

"No," He said, realizing that he answered all too quickly. She simply nodded, knowing something was up, but not bothering to confront him. "I'm just thinking."

She still looked at him, her eyes gazing at his, then at his lips, then back, multiple times. He knew what she wanted, but she wouldn't voice it, because she didn't want to have to force anything.

He kept telling himself that she's only doing it because _she's drunk_. And yet, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to believe in the conclusion he'd just made.

* * *

**A/N: I do realize Sherlock is lightly OOC (Out Of Character for those who don't know what it means :]), but I guess that was kind of why I was aiming for in the last 8-9 paragraphs I wrote. I did it so that he was somewhat IC, but I showed a different side of him-emotions. (DUN DUN DUUHNNNNNN)**

**This was kinda-sorta a filler, but I needed some angst Sherbel fluff. Not much, but this is Sherlock. He doesn't exactly do fluff. Unless I say so. And I ay no.**

**For now.**

**Oki doki Loki well I should *cough cough* not *cough cough* get some sleep. Please review and/or follow/favorite! **

**If you have any suggestions for the next chapter or for something to happen later in the story, please let me know via review or PM.**

**Bye, Darlings!**


	8. A Different Path

**A/N: Cherie (Guest): In the case of the context 'analyst' was in, it's actually correct. And yes, I did get the reference, Earth Girl. **

**I had a huge writer's block with this, so I'm posting it today... I meant to post it Sunday, but that didn't go as planned. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

_Two Weeks Later_

Isabel stepped outside into the cool mid-November rain. She had to clear her mind, get away from the place she called 'home'.

She felt like she couldn't stand Sherlock, he was just so... Odd. But, yet, she felt completely different around him. She didn't know the exact reason why. The only logical explanation she could come up with was basic human biology: pheromones. But that still didn't help with anything.

She soon realized her clothes were starting to get soaked, even though she had only been outside for 20 minutes. She briskly walked back home, eager to retreat into the warmth. Once she reached the flat, she stepped inside, taking off her coat. She reached the privacy of her bedroom, and stripped herself of the damp clothing that clung to her skin. She didn't bother with a shower-she pretty much already had one. She put on warm pajamas, hoping the cloth wouldn't feel uncomfortable against her not-so-dry skin.

All the while, she tried to rid herself of the feelings she had towards Sherlock Holmes. She tried to force herself to only view him as an acquaintance.

The only problem with that is the fact that telling yourself not to like someone... It's not exactly possible if you don't have a reason.

* * *

_Scotland Yard_

"Hey, Sherlock! What're you doing 'ere?" Lestrade called, making the dark-haired man turn his way. "You're still under suspension!"

"I'm not here for a case. I'm not here to injure Anderson again, either." Sherlock hollered, walking over to the Detective Inspector. "And, before you say anything, I know he's still in the hospital."

"Well then why are you here?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock sighed, looking at the ground, embarrassed.

"I'm here to talk to Isabel." He murmured. His voice was so quiet Lestrade, who was about 2-4 feet away from him, could barely hear. He composed his expression, forcing himself to appear emotionless. He looked back up at Lestrade, who now seemed perplexed.

"I'm sorry? What did you say?" He asked. Sherlock's eyes widened as if caught the question caught him by surprise.

"I need to talk to Isabel. Now, is she here or not?" He barked. Lestrade looked down and to the side, scratching the nape of his neck. "She's not here, is she?"

"No, sorry, mate. She's on leave for a while. She didn't tell ya?" Lestrade asked, clearly confused.

"Why would she be on leave? She's obviously not pregnant or physically harmed." Sherlock asked.

"She's... Emotionally unstable, right now, I guess you could say. She's been having breakdowns and anxiety attacks quite often. I told her to stay home 'til she was better."

"I have to go." Sherlock said, and he walked out, leaving to go to his flat.

* * *

_Baker Street_

Sherlock knocked on Isabel's door, calling her name. He opened the door after waiting a few minutes, finding out it was unlocked. Hanging his coat up, he looked around the flat, and found her in her bedroom, sleeping peacefully.

Laying on her side on the bed, her ginger spice hair was framing her face. Her lips were slightly parted, forming the smallest of smiles-she must have been having a wonderful, happy dream. She was cuddling a pillow, her arms clutching it as if her world would fall apart if she let go.

_Lonely. Silently suffering. Dreaming of a lover, possibly her father. Missing someone to a great extent. _He deduced. He then had another thought. He cocked his head to the side, wondering if he saw a different part of her, just from seeing the scene in front of him just for a moment. _Is she... In love?_

She silently stirred, and he started to back away slowly. When he saw she hadn't awaken, he stepped forward again. He sat on the edge of her bed, brushing the hair away from her face lightly. Her skin felt soft and warm against his. Her smile seemed to grow slightly.

"Sherlock..." She mumbled sleepily. Her eyes fluttered open. "Why are you here?"

At that, Sherlock stood up, starting to walk away. She sat up, and quickly ran over to him. "Where are you going?" She asked, looking at him. He looked down at her blankly.

"I wanted to ask you something but when I went to Scotland Yard, Lestrade had told me that you were on leave. Why?"

"What did you want to ask me?" She inquired, obviously trying to avoid his question.

"Answer mine first."

"Why?"

"Don't ask stupid questions. Now tell me, why are you on leave!" He shouted, making her flinch due to their close proximity.

"I don't have to tell you." She replied. She walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of lemonade. Sherlock followed her, leaning against the counter.

"Oh well, Lestrade already told me."

"Exactly." There was silence for what seemed like hours.

"Who were you dreaming about?" Sherlock asked suddenly. She jumped, remembering that he was there. She looked at him, surprised.

"I'm sorry?"

"Who were you dreaming about?" He repeated. She looked towards the ground, gripping her upper arm with her hand.

"No one." She stated. Sherlock walked towards her, leaving a foot of space.

"Tell me." He demanded. When she didn't answer, he walked closer to her, gripping her wrists softly. She didn't look up nor flinch. He slid his hands up her arms slowly, her skin replacing his warmth with goose bumps. His hand removed hers from her arm.

"You were having a dream about someone you love, possibly miss. Who were you dreaming about? Your father? One of your friends? Your mum? Who?" He said, making her look slightly scared by the fact that he knew she was dreaming about someone she loved.

"Someone you know. It's obviously not my brother, though. Nor is it the army doctor." She said, looking into his eyes.

_Pupils dilating, biting lower lip, making constant eye contact. No, it wasn't... _Sherlock thought.

"I'm not going to guess. Because I already know who it is. I just to see if you'll tell me." Her head turned towards the living room, her eyes slightly looking towards the floor. He leaned towards her ear. "Because I know it was me, Isabel." He murmured. She turned her head back towards him slowly.

"Now that we have that settled, tell me who you think about late at night." She whispered, making Sherlock freeze in place. His head hadn't moved from where it had been when he whispered in her ear. He place his hands firmly on the back of her neck, placing his thumbs of either side of her face, making her stay in place.

"I think about the person who made me suspended from my case. And it wasn't Anderson."

The statement made her think. It wasn't Lestrade, and he just said it wasn't Anderson. As much as she hated to admit it, she hoped that he was talking about her.

"Well, then. I'd do something right now if I knew you'd react in the way I hope you would." She said, raising her arms and propping herself up on the counter. He looked at her incredulously.

"And what would that be?"

"Mm... I think you know." She winked. "Think, Detective."

"I never told you if I thought about you in a good way or not. So don't try to be... Seductive."

"Jesus, Sherlock, I wasn't." She claimed.

"You weren't what?"

"Trying to be seductive!" She said, exasperated.

"I know." He tried to hide his smirk.

"Whatever. What way do you... think of me as?"

"Not bad."

"So good?" She asked hopefully.

"No."

"Well then how the hell do you see me?" She asked incredulously.

"Figure it out."

"I could say a lot of things right now." She said.

"Most of them help you, mostly." He countered.

"And you." She promised.

"And what would you say that could possibly help me in a way that isn't useful?" He asked.

"Hmm... It's more of a question." Sherlock sighed.

"What is it?"

Isabel gasped. Sherlock looked at her, confused.

"Sherlock, of all people, you should be able to decipher body language quite easily." She hinted. He studied her for a moment. When she wrapped her arm around his neck, again, he shook his head.

"No."

"Why?"

"I do not wish to... 'help you forget' your troubles."

"What the hell are you talking about?" She asked.

"I thought.."

"God, save my soul." She muttered. "No, Sherlock. I don't... I'm not... Jesus, I don't want to go all the way with you. I meant..." She trailed off.

"Meant what, Isabel?" He demanded. She shook her head, smiling.

"I'll show you."

"Oh." He said, realizing what she meant.

She crashed her lips against his, threading her hands through his hair. His hands slipped from her neck, and moved to his own. Isabel smiled against his lips, taking his hands and moving them to her waist. He stayed hesitant, still in shock at what was happening. After a while, he slipped his hands to the small of her back, stepping forward so he was against the counter. Isabel's hands moved to his neck, pulling him closer.

After what felt like forever for the both of them, Isabel slowly pulled away, not wanting to stop butting knowing that there was a limit. She rested her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her forehead against his neck. Sherlock didn't move.

He was still in shock.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so, to be honest, I'm not a huge fan of this chapter. This took me from Saturday night to now (Jan. 20th, 2014) to FINALLY finish it. I know it's not that long, but that's because I kept having writer's block. Whenever I got a good amount of writing done, Something would happen and, obviously, most of it wasn't saved so it was deleted. **

**Again.**

**Please let me know if you liked it, or what you didn't like.**

**Favorite/follow please. Thanks Darlings!**


	9. Secrets Kept, Hints Given

**A/N: Well, I was going to post earlier, but I didn't have Wi-Fi all weekend, thanks to my cousin who was over from Friday to Sunday, and we just fixed it a few hours ago. So I finally have WiFi and the ability to publish/upload, thank Loki. Welp, here you go. Not exactly fluffy, 'crept for one part, not much angst... Mostly filler until the middle-wish/end. **

**Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

_The Day After_

Isabel knocked on Sherlock's door. When it opened, Sherlock was standing there, the first few buttons of his purple shirt undone. She tried not to stare, but she couldn't help it.

"My eyes are up here, Isabel." He muttered, drawing her attention.

"Oh, sorry. I'd expect that I'd have to tell you that." She said, chuckling awkwardly. "May I..?"

"Oh, right, yes, of course." Sherlock said, stepping out of the way to let her in. He closed the door and walked past Isabel to sit in his chair. She sat down on the couch, crossing her legs. "Did you need something?"

"I just wanted to talk to you about... Last night..." She said quietly, glancing at Sherlock. His expression changed; it went from emotionless to slightly confused.

"May I ask why?"

"It was uncalled for."

"Are you sure that's just you saying that?" Sherlock asked, making Isabel giggle a little bit out of disbelief.

"I'm positive that we both think it's true."

"How do you know?"

"Are you trying to hint at something?" Isabel asked, smiling.

"I believe so."

"Well, whether you are or not, I'm apologizing. That was... Not the smartest thing to do, considering the situation and conditions at the moment."

"Don't apologize."

"Why?" Sherlock thought for moment.

"Never mind." He said, turning his view towards the wall. He didn't want to see her. More, he didn't want her to see him.

"Um... Okay." Isabel said, sighing and standing up to walk out. "Bye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Isabel." He never looked at her, even as she walked out.

* * *

Sherlock stared through the microscope, glaring at the samples in the slides. He tried to think straight, though for some reason, he couldn't.

_Stop it. Get it out of your head. She's just playing you like The Woman. She'll wrap you around her finger and then she'll hurt you like everyone else has at some point and-_

"_Stop_!" He shouted. He fisted his hair, shutting his eyes tight. He stood up quickly, kicking the chair away from him. John walked over from his spot on the couch, glancing at the chair on the floor then on Sherlock, who was now breathing heavily, his arms at his sides.

"Should I ask?" John questioned, crossing his arms across his chest. Sherlock glared at him.

"I'd rather you not." He said. He didn't know what was happening, and he wanted to. His tone was completely unconvincing. John sighed, motioning for Sherlock to sit in his chair.

"Yes you would. Now sit, what's going on? Don't lie to me, Sherlock, because I'm able to tell by now." He ordered, sitting across from Sherlock. "Tell me what's going on with your head right now."

"I don't know what's going on. That's the problem. I don't know."

"Okay... That doesn't help. I can't help you if you don't know."

"Isabel's brother is Moriarty. He'll be able to get to the both of us." Sherlock murmured, too quiet for John to hear.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. I think it's Isabel." He answered. He glanced at John, with a look of animation John's never seen.

"What about her?"

"There's something about her, and I don't know what it is. She's interesting, of course, but she's also... Very..."

"Very what?"

"No, that's not good enough." Sherlock told himself, steeping his hands under his chin as he always did when he was thinking. "What's the word?"

"I don't know, you tell me." Isabel said, her voice coming from the open doorway. She stood there, looking like she was about to go somewhere that wasn't her job, and glanced at John. "You ready?"

"Where are you two going?" Sherlock asked, curiosity laced in his voice.

"Lunch. I made a bet with her and I won, so she's taking' me to lunch." John grinned, standing up to walk out. He brushed past Isabel, who stayed in the doorway, staring into Sherlock's eyes. "You coming, Isabel?"

"Yeah, yeah... I'll be down in a minute." She said, not bothering to look at John. She walked slowly over to Sherlock, who glared at her.

"How long had you been standing there?" He demanded.

"I was walking up as I heard you say I'm interesting. Apparently I'm very..." She recited, waiting for Sherlock to finish the incomplete statement.

"Very... Smart..." He cleared his throat. "If that works for you."

"Of course it does. Sherlock Holmes has just given me a 'compliment'. Well, anyways, I have to go. I'll see you in a few hours. Unless... You want to come with us?" Isabel suggested, walking closer so there was only a foot of space between them. "I'll still pay."

Sherlock gulped, and his pupils dilated, making Isabel smile. She bit her bottom lip lightly, looking at Sherlock's lips. He looked at hers only for a moment, but he craved them.

He remembered the sensation of the kisses, the feeling of her lips against his. He resisted the urge to kiss her then, but knew she had to get out of the flat and away from her before he did.

"Do I have to eat?"_ GOD DAMN IT SHERLOCK YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO STAY AWAY FROM HER!_

"At least get something to drink." _SAY NO, SHERLOCK, YOU NEED TO SAY NO!_

"Fine, I'll come." He huffed a sigh. _Sherlock you bastard._

They walked down, finding that John was still waiting.

"He's coming too?" John asked, nodding his head towards the detective.

"Of course I'm coming." Sherlock retorted, seemingly offended. He hailed a taxi, climbing it when it pulled over. Isabel and John slid in as well after him. Isabel gave the address.

John heard his phone go off as soon as the door closed.

_**I'm assuming you want to talk to me? -SH**_

**Yeah, actually, I do. Why are you coming along with us? -JW**

_**Was this supposed to be a date? -SH**_

**No, Sherlock. I have a girlfriend and you know that! It wasn't going to be a date. -JW**

His phone didn't go off for a few minutes. When they reached the restaurant, John glared at Sherlock, who seemed innocently confused.

_**Then why would it bother you? -SH**_

John didn't answer.

The three of them walked inside, and sat in a booth in the corner by a window. Isabel and Sherlock sat across from John. They eventually got some food, but Sherlock didn't, of course. The three of them were silent for quite a while.

"Are you two going out yet?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea and looking at Isabel.

"Excuse me?" She asked, glancing at Sherlock then back at John. "No, we aren't. What makes you say that?"

"Nothing."

The rest of the time they spent in the little café was quiet.

* * *

"'Ay, Isabel!" Anderson yelled, running over to the irritated secretary.

"What the hell do you want, Anderson?"

"Well, sorry, for wanting to let you know Sherlock's here." He said defensively.

"He's here almost every other day."

"But he's here for you."

Isabel froze. She dropped the thick stack of papers she was fixing, sending them all over the desk and floor. She ran all over to find him, thanking God that she hadn't lost her breath quite yet.

"Hello, Isabel." Sherlock said, his voice slightly deeper than usual. He slipped his coat and scarf off, laying them on the chair a few feet away.

"Sherlock."

"You're wondering why I'm here." He stated, walking towards her.

"For me." She hadn't lost her breath from running. But she was breathing shallowly as he walked towards her,

"I need to tell you something."

Her heart raced, pounding against her chest. Her breathing picked up, making her require more oxygen than she had before.

"What do you... Need to tell me?" She stammered, trying to process the fact that Sherlock was merely two feet away, and was still walking closer to her.

"It's about Moriarty." He was standing about 2 inches away from her, his lips leaning towards her ear.

_Jesus, Iz, breath. Relax. He didn't escape, he's not a free man, he's not alive, he's not-_

"He escaped." He whispered, his hand slipping around her waist to the small of her back so she wouldn't fall. She gripped his shirt, feeling dizzy.

"H-how?" She gasped, leaning against the wall for support. Sherlock still held onto her, pressing his free hand on the wall next to her.

"This is Moriarty. He broke onto the Bank of England, the Crown Jewels, and Pentonville Prison from one location and was found not guilty. He's a criminal mastermind." He whispered into her ear. Her body shivered, chills descending her spine. She felt her knees buckle but made sure she could still stand. She wrapped her free hand around the back of his neck, trying to regain her balance so she could stand properly on her own.

"Nothing makes sense." She murmured, her voice wispy with the shallow breaths she still took.

She could feel him barely shaking since there was probably a few centimeters of space between them. She suddenly had impulses and urges she had to force herself to resist.

She wanted to kiss him; to hug him; to touch him; to hold him. She wanted to sleep; to relax; to smile. She wanted to fall to the ground; to cry; to scream; to _kill_ the man that intended on doing the same to her and everyone she loves. She wanted to leave the country; to see her mum; to see her father one more time before something happened. She wanted to be with her family and friends, but she wanted to be alone. She didn't want to be completely alone, though. She wanted just one person with her.

As if reading her mind, Sherlock lightly kissed Isabel, and she kissed him back. Her fingertips brushed against the hairs at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. Both her hands threaded into his hair, locking his dark curls into her fists, her upper arms resting on his shoulders. His hand moved from the wall to her waist, and the kiss wasn't as gentle anymore. He pulled her against him, his hands now on the small of her back.

"Sherlock! Not the right time." Lestrade shouted, making the pair reluctantly pull away from each other. "Isabel, I need you to type something up for me." He handed her a small notepad. She took it and looked through the pages briefly.

"Um, Greg. This is the report I wrote right before I went on leave." She said, handing the DI the notepad. "But thanks for reminding me I'm at work. Or reminding him. Either one works."

He grimaced. "Might as well send ya home then. I've got nothing else for you to do."

Isabel smiled, letting Sherlock know she would grab her stuff and they could leave. As soon as she was out of the room, Sherlock glared at Greg.

"Why the hell did you do that?" He demanded.

"What're you talking about!" Greg replied.

"Never mind! Your tiny little brains are unable to comprehend what just happened, aren't they?" Sherlock said, walking out when Isabel returned.

"What just happened?" Greg yelled, knowing no one would know what he was talking about.

* * *

Isabel was unusually quiet on the ride home. She tried to wrap her head around what had happened just 10 minutes ago.

"What the hell was that?" She randomly asked, her voice quiet, eyes focused on the road. Sherlock looked at her, confused, and then looked back at the road.

"What do you mean?" He asked innocently. He grinned, knowing she'd be annoyed.

"You know damn well what I mean, Sherlock. I was _at work _and suddenly, right after you told me _my brother escaped prison _you decided to _make out with me. _Why?" Her hand gripped the steering wheel a little more tightly.

"You wanted me to."

"Other than that." She whispered.

"When you kiss someone, your body releases dopamine. I'm guessing you know what dopamine is." He told her, making her sigh.

"Let me get this straight. You kissed me because it releases dopamine. You kissed me so I'd feel 'happier'. Are you sure there isn't another reason? Because you seemed, um, quite… _Passionate. _Though, I'm not quite sure that's the right term." She said, smiling. She looked at him, smirking. When he didn't return the smile, she looked back at the road.

"No, there wasn't another reason as to why I had done that." He said nonchalantly. He took his phone out and started texting someone, though she couldn't tell who.

"Can you tell me what time it is?" She asked.

"1:45. Why?" He replied.

"I was just wondering."

He didn't say anything; he just sat there, still typing away on his phone.

"Just tell me the real reason though." Isabel murmured, so quite, Sherlock could barely hear her.

"What did you say?" He asked, looking at her.

"_Dis-moi pourquoi tu m'as embrassé_." She whispered, her voice tense. (Translation: Tell me why you kissed me) Sherlock looked at her, curious as to what she just said. She looked at him, just for a moment, then back at the road.

"Can you please speak so I can understand?" He murmured, knowing she wouldn't.

"_Dimmi solo perché mi hai baciato_." She spoke, her voice softer than before. (Translation: Just tell me why you kissed me.)

"In English." He demanded.

"I'm not going to tell you." She said, her eyes looking glazed over. Her grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly.

"You should." He whispered, barely audible.

"Give me a legitimate reason why." She ordered. She looked at him, her face holding an expression of frustration.

"Because I…" He trailed off, not sure what to say. She looked back at the road, nodding microscopically.

"Exactly. " She muttered, parking in front of the flat. She got out of the car, and was inside before Sherlock could step out of the vehicle.

* * *

"I don't want you to go out in public by yourself. With Moriarty free... He could basically stalk you, kidnap you when you're alone. I can't let that happen. He could have people keep tabs on you." Sherlock told Isabel. She sat down on the couch next to him, subtly laying her hand near his, her pinkie lightly tapping his. He stared at her finger, linking his in hers. She looked up at him, her aqua eyes meeting his now silver ones. He looked away, slightly blushing.

"But I don't get it." She murmured, her voice wispy. "How would Moriarty be my brother?"

"Pretending... Double identity... Multiple different ways. Don't be daft." He criticized. She looked at him, glaring, and fought the urge to hit him.

"But he was in the-" She yelled, cutting off before she realized she was about to reveal too much. Sherlock looked at her, suspicious. She looked down, nervous.

"What was he in?" Sherlock asked, leaning towards her subconsciously. She turned to him, her face somber.

"I'm not going to talk about it right now." She said, making it clear she wouldn't keep talking about the current topic.

"Tell me." He growled. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her towards him. She looked at his hands gripping beer thin wrists tightly.

"_Io non ho intenzione di, Sherlock! Ora lasciatemi andare_!" She yelled, pulling her arms away from him. He looked at her, confused. (Translation: I'm not going to, Sherlock! Now let me go!)

He let her go, even though he had no clue as to what she was saying.

"I didn't know you speak Italian and French as well." He drawled. She looked at him, an odd mix of emotions playing on her face.

"I always speak Russian. I speak the four languages: French, Italian, Russian, and English fluently. French and English I know for obvious reasons. And I decided to take Italian and Latin in high school and University. " She added, not wanting to explain how she knew Russian.

"So what about Russian? Where'd you learn it and why?" He interrogated, his voice demanding. She shook her head, indicating she didn't want to tell him just yet.

"Not yet. Soon, though. I'll tell you soon." She promised, not knowing when 'soon' was.

"I should, um, go and, uh, change since I'm out for the, uh, day." She stuttered, her voice making her appear uncomfortable. Sherlock nodded, walking over to his microscope. "Bye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Isabel." He called out to her, as she was already descending the stairs to her flat, even though the door was closed.

He didn't move for the rest of the night.

* * *

**A/N: There was the not so fluffy-filler chapter. Any predictions as to why Isabel knows Russian, how Moriarty acted as Isabel's brother (it wasn't like he did with Richard Brook), or what secrets she's hiding?**

**Let me know in the reviews/comments. If you need anything translated, or if I translated something wrong, please let me know so I know for future references. Thanks, Darlings!**

**Also, Because it's been God-Knows-How-Long since I've posted, I'll update ASAP now that I have my WiFi up. **


	10. Flashback

**A/N: Hey guys! Wow, two updates, two days? What? **

**Because I love you guys and you're my Darlings. I'm callin' you my Darlings now, k? Kay.**

**This is more of a filler, with a shit ton of fluff. So be prepared. **

* * *

_Two months later_

Isabel woke up to rolling thunder, her head pounding. She had been drinking the night before, and she knew it. She looked at the time: 4 in the morning. She groaned, sitting up. Her head spun, and she fell back against her pillows. She slowly sat back up, trying to stand on her feet. Her legs felt like jelly, her knees weak. She looked down and realized she only had on a cami. She threw on a pair of shorts and slipped a sweater on. She grabbed a ice cold bottle of water and a few pain killers, downing the pills in a single sip.

She heard the violin playing upstairs, the melody beautiful and soft. She swept her auburn hair over her shoulder, brushing it softly but quickly. She walked up the steps to the flat slowly, her head still aching. She knocked on the door, her heart starting to beat erratically. When the door opened, she was greeted with a small smile, plastered onto a beautiful face framed with messy dark curls.

"Did I wake you?" Sherlock asked, his voice soft, like a whisper. She shook her head, an expression of awe upon her face as she pointed towards the violin he held in his hand.

"Do... do you play?" She asked, her voice quiet. He nodded, and let her come in. "But um, I woke up to the thunder. I didn't know it was supposed to rain today."

"It wasn't." He said, closing the door and sitting on the couch. Isabel sat on the arm, hesitant to get too close to him. He looked at her, his eyes red. "But, you know, even nature changes her mind randomly sometimes."

She looked at him, slowly getting up and walling over to him. "What happened?"

"Nothing." He said, turning away. She tentatively rested her hand against his cheek, making him look at her. She rested her forehead against his, making her heart race more than it was before. She rested her other hand on his cheek, both sides of his face now in control by her.

"Am I going to have to force it out of you?" She asked, her voice laced with seductiveness. Sherlock breathed in, his breath wispy and shallow. She smirked, closing her eyes. "Because I have no problem with that."

He took a breath quickly, pressing his lips against hers. Isabel was caught by surprise, not exactly expecting it. She kissed him back though, enjoying the time while she had the chance.

She realized she was still kneeling, and so she slowly stood up, pulling away for a second so she could sit on the couch. As soon as she sat down, their lips met once again. Sherlock turned slightly so his body was more towards her, leaning closer. Isabel did the same, her hands moving from his cheeks to his neck. His hands moved from their place at his side to her waist, pulling her closer. Her fingertips brushed against the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver in the slightest. She smiled into the kiss, the pads of her fingers slowly tracing his neck into his hair. Her fingers tangled in the curls.

Sherlock pulled away slightly, his lips brushing against Isabel's. His breathing was heavy, making her bite her lip in order to not laugh.

One moment, he's trying to catch his breath, the next... He's kissing her again, with a force that was soft but possessive at the same time. She was surprised, but gave away, loving every second. Minutes later, he pulled away again, snickering softly.

"Mm, I need you to do something for me." He said, his voice dark and deeper than usual.

Isabel looked confused as he pulled further away, watching him walk into his bedroom. She sat there, dumbstruck.

"What just happened?" She asked, her eyes threatening to close. When Sherlock walked back out, the white shirt he had on was gone, his chest chiseled into a perfect structure. She looked up at him, gazing in awe. He smirked, holding a hand out to her. She hesitantly took it, her expression never changing. He pulled her towards him, bringing her into a hug.

"What do I have to do?" She asked. He smiled, his eyes lighting up. He put a finger under her chin, tilting her face towards him. He closed his eyes and leaned in, but just let his lips brush hers as light as a feather. Every time she'd think he'd go to kiss her, she'd try to pull him in but he'd pull away a second before she could. Finally, as John opened his door and walked out, Sherlock kissed her.

He was gentle and soft, yet rough and possessive. His arms wound around her waist, pulling her tight against him. She laid her hands on his chest, her fingers tracing the muscle and the form of his abdomen lightly. He suddenly pulled away, brushing past her and stalking into his room.

"Someone's PMSing." John muttered, walking over to Isabel. " The hell was that about?"

Isabel shrugged, speechless. Sherlock came back into the living room with his purple shirt on.

"I can say that I was not..." Isabel said, not quite able to find the right word.

"Expecting that?" Sherlock suggested. "I can honestly say that I don't know why I did that."

Isabel walked over to him, giving him a quick hug. "Sure."

She smiled, looking up at Sherlock. He smiled back.

* * *

_Isabel looked up at the sky, her eyes become clouded with black spots as she fought to keep conscious. The night sky was flurries with bright stars, not a single cloud in the atmosphere. The moon was a bright white, full in the midnight sky. _

_She looked down at her hand on her stomach, realizing she felt no pain though it was bloody. Her stomach felt like it'd been shot, and the bullet was sinking in her body. Her head spun, the stars in the sky looking like they were inches from her face. Her legs felt like they'd been set ablaze. Her whole body felt like it was going to collapse further not the ground any minute... Like it was about to sink six feet into the ground._

_The snow below her iced her dying body slightly, just barely relieving the pain. _

_She opened her mouth to scream, but her throat felt like she just swallowed lava. Her mouth was dry and sore, her lips cracked to the point that if she moved them anymore they'd fall off. Her skin was barely covered, what with the pair of shorts and cami she was wearing. She felt frozen, like she was in a block of ice._

_"Oh, Izabella, you insolent child. Your brother ran away. He escaped us. Because you said you'd pay him a good amount of money if he did so successfully. And now, he's not the only ne that has to pay the price." She heard a man say. She couldn't tell who it was. Her mind was far too fuzzy. She stayed in place, unable to move._

_"You can't run away from us without dying. Without going through with your sentence. Yours just so happens to be death. Execution."_

_She wanted to tell him she hadn't done anything wrong. That she wasn't even in their circle. She wasn't born into it, her brother was. Because he was the oldest._

_"We decided your execution will be by freezing to death. Hypothermia. We're trying to find your brother right now. He's so good at hiding."_

_She hear snickering. Laughing. Malicious, evil laughing. It reminded her of a mad man._

_The crunch of boots digging into the packed snow flattered as the man walked away from her, leaving the woman to die. She felt completely numb._

_The next thing she knew was that she was in a hospital. She was being treated for shock, hypothermia, dehydration... You name it, she was probably suffering from it. She didn't know who anyone was. She barely remembered herself. _

_Days after being released from the hospital she traveled to America, where she learned her father was killed in a hostage situation. _

_She was sure she knew who it was. But she didn't want it to be them._

_Any one but them._

* * *

Sherlock laid down on his bed, checking the time. 11 at night. He hadn't slept for 4 days, so he finally gave in and decided to rest.

After what felt like minutes of being asleep, he woke up to the sound of bullets in the basement flat where Isabel lived.

"_SHERLOCK!_" She screamed, her voice ringing and echoing through each door and stair and wall.

Sherlock heard four bullets after she yelled his name and he sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He took his gun out, locking and loading it in case he needed to use it.

He walked into her flat, noticing her cowering on the floor in terror, while a tall figure loomed above her, standing to make his dominance known. The man turned around, and Sherlock saw his face.

Sherlock dropped his gun, a million emotions swiping across his face within moments. He knew the man that was standing above Isabel.

Sebastian Moran.

* * *

**A/N: Well, I shall leave this chapter on the note of a cliff hanger. Not as much fluff as I thought there'd be, but, hey, at least there was some. **

**The area that is in all italics was a flashback memory of Isabel's, to kind of give you tiny hints as to what Isabel and her brother had to run away from. If you have any more ideas, let me know!**

**Please Follow/favorite and/or review!**

**Thanks, Darlings! **


	11. I Can Shoot A Gun!

_Sherlock laid down on his bed, checking the time. 11 at night. He hadn't slept for 4 days, so he finally gave in and decided to rest._

_After what felt like minutes of being asleep, he woke up to the sound of bullets in the basement flat where Isabel lived._

_"SHERLOCK!" She screamed, her voice ringing and echoing through each door and stair and wall._

_Sherlock heard four bullets after she yelled his name and he sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He took his gun out, locking and loading it in case he needed to use it._

_He walked into her flat, noticing her cowering on the floor in terror, while a tall figure loomed above her, standing to make his dominance known. The man turned around, and Sherlock saw his face._

_Sherlock dropped his gun, a million emotions swiping across his face within moments. He knew the man that was standing above Isabel._

_Sebastian Moran._

* * *

Sebastian lunged at Sherlock, pushing him to the ground. He punched Sherlock in the jaw, making it crack a bit. Sherlock grabbed the collar of the man's shirt, shoving him off his body, slamming Moran's head against the coffee table. Isabel struggled to stand up, shaken with shock and fear, a terrified expression on her face. She scrambled to the gun beside the two men fighting, realizing it was full and locked. She rested her finger against the trigger. She aimed it at Sebastian's abdomen, just above his naval.

Sebastian stopped and looked at her with a surprised look on his face, realizing what she was about to do. Sherlock noticed and looked at the girl too, his eyes switching from the gun to her face every few seconds. Her arms and hands shook very noticeably, almost convulsing. Her chest shook hard with every breath, tears running down her face and her lip bleeding. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip.

Sherlock moved out of the way just seconds before she pulled the trigger. She dropped the gun, realizing what she had just done.

She looked at Sebastian, who was slowly starting to look down at his stomach, his green shirt deepened with the burgundy color of the fresh blood. He laid his shaking hand on top of the wound, closing his eyes and groaning in agony. He threw his head back, hitting it harshly against the wood of the table. Sherlock picked the gun up, aiming at Sebastian with a look of fury on his face.

"Why are you here? Why are you here for her?" He yelled, not caring that it was almost the middle of the night. He grabbed Isabel's arm softly, pulling her more towards him, slightly behind his body, just in case. Sebastian glared at both of them, his jaw clenched tightly. "Tell me, goddamn it!"

"I was told too, Sherly. I was told to. Now shut up and call a freaking ambulance. This hurts like hell." He said through his teeth. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Isabel moved from his grasp. She swiped the gun from him, walking towards Sebastian.

"You were told to, obviously Sebastian. And I know the reason why you're here and I do have the opportunity to kill you like I should have all those damn years ago. I had the opportunity then, but this is a better time. Now tell me where the hell Moriarty is because I know you work for him. I know he wants me dead." She walked closer, the gun against his rib cage. "You better tell me right now, because I will not hesitate to shoot you again."

Sebastian glanced at her, then at Sherlock, who still looked furious, though slightly calmer.

"If I'm here, he's obviously with everyone else. They got him, Isabel. They got him. They're going to carry out his execution within the next few months. Unless he somehow gets away." He grinned, looking back at the girl.

"You liar, they don't have him. He's still here in the UK. He's not in Russia. Not quite yet. But, if I don't get him myself, he will be." She murmured in his ear, pressing the trigger further into his skin. She pulled away, stepping backwards, still aiming the gun at his rib.

"You wouldn't shoot me." He muttered, purposely annoying her. She aimed lower, below his naval, where it would hurt the most, but most likely wouldn't be fatal.

"Not fatally. But enough to get my point across." She said, stepping a little closer. She fired the gun, making Sebastian scream in pain. His hand shot from his stomach to where the bullet hit him. He couldn't double over, considering he still had a bullet in his abdomen. She smirked, smug, and walked closer to him. She slammed the gun onto his head, knocking him out. She turned around, noticing Sherlock's expression was confused and utterly shocked.

"H-how... Did you... Why..." He couldn't finish his sentence; he was pretty much speechless. He brought a hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb lightly against her barely-bleeding lip. She froze, the action making the cut sting. "How did you get hurt?"

"He punched me." She murmured, closing her eyes. She took a few deep breaths, nuzzling her head against his hand. She laid her hand on his, his skin warm against her cold flesh. She let his hand go, opening her eyes. "But I'm fine."

"Should we call an ambulance?" She asked, looking back at the man who was pooling blood. Sherlock thought for a moment, nodding after a while. She pulled her phone out, explaining that it was self-defense. Minutes later a few police cars were there, along with a couple ambulances.

Isabel was sitting on the edge of one, her legs dangling above the ground, Sherlock sitting next to her. They saw John walking out in a pair of pajamas, looking confused.

"What happened?" He asked, looking around at the vehicles.

"I'll explain later." Isabel promised. John shrugged, not bothering to go further. They put a shock blanket on Isabel, who gladly took it. She was still in nothing but a cami and a pair of shorts, even though it was the middle of January.

"How long do you think it'll take him to heal?" She asked Sherlock, who was gazing off into the distance, staring at someone or something. He jumped slightly, looking at her.

"A few months. Possibly a few years, considering where you shot him." He said. John looked at him then at Isabel, who looked at John.

"I shot him in the crotch and the stomach." She explained, looking a little tense.

"Ah." John murmured, looking at Sherlock. "Ay, mate, you alright?"

"Yeah. Fine." Sherlock muttered, waving him off. John gave a small wave to Isabel, then walked back into his flat. "Why would Moriarty be in Russia?"

"If we ever have to go I'll tell you." She murmured, looking at the ground. Sherlock tolerated the answer, not very happy with it.

If only she could tell him without getting killed.

* * *

Isabel stayed home the next few days by order of Lestrade. She didn't understand why though, since she'd done worse to people. Not that she was a criminal.

It was just the people she was around. Not that she liked them whatsoever.

She would stay with Sherlock upstairs most of the time, helping him with whatever he needed help with. He wouldn't admit it, but he enjoyed it greatly.

Not that he knew why.

"Sherlock?" Isabel asked one day, knowing he was working with an experiment. He turned her way.

"Yes?"

"I need to ask you something..." She said cautiously, needing to word her thoughts and emotions carefully. He gestured as if to say 'What is it?'

"Do you know what it feels like to be..." She trailed off, looking for the right word. "Do you know what it feels like to be in love?"

He froze, processing the question. She bit her lip, nervous, and looked at the floor towards his feet. His eyes locked with hers moments later.

"No. I don't believe I do." He murmured, feeling an odd sensation in his stomach. His heart raced, and he felt flustered. His eyes widened. He licked his lips, unsure of what to say. "Though it may feel like the scariest thing in the world while it feels like the most perfect thing in the world. At the same time. It probably feels like..."

He trailed off again, not knowing what to say.

Isabel looked at him, a small smile on her face, then back at the book she was reading. The glasses she wore fit her perfectly, not looking out of place. She only wore them for reading, though occasionally she'd have them on when she wasn't. She had been reading the Harry Potter series since she'd went on leave, but she was about halfway through the seventh book. She enjoyed them very much.

He looked through the lens in his microscope again, not sure if his reaction to her question was rational.

She stood up and walked over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder softly. He looked at her, curiosity taking over his face. She took his hand, pulling him to the couch. She pushed him down onto it gently, sitting down next to him, her side pressed against his. She rested her other hand on his cheek, her thumb stroking his cheekbone. She intertwined their fingers together, looking at him. She smirked, biting her lip softly.

"What are you doing?" He asked, realizing she was slowly inching her face towards his. "Again?"

"Why not? 'It releases dopamine'." She said, repeating the words he'd said to her when he kissed her while she was working. He sighed, leaning towards her too. Their lips met seconds later, both of them sitting straight. Isabel moved to kneel so Sherlock wouldn't have to bend down. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer. His hands knotted themselves in her hair, making her kiss him harder. He pulled her down so she was hovering over him. She pulled away, her lips brushing against his. "Needy, aren't we, Sherly?"

"Perhaps." He murmured, pulling her back in for another kiss. She smiled against his lips, deepening the kiss. The two of them heard the door downstairs open, but they didn't move, they just stayed there, laying on the couch, kissing.

John opened the door, stopping in the doorway, his jaw slacking. Isabel pulled her face from Sherlock's, looking up at John with a sheepish grin on her face.

"Uh, h-hi, John... Wh-what're you doing here?" She stammered, still on top of Sherlock, who was now looking at John with a guilty look on his face.

"I live here." John muttered, closing the door. Isabel was _still_ on top of Sherlock. "Was I... Interrupting something?"

"Goddamn it, Watson.." Sherlock muttered, throwing his head back onto the arm of the couch. He groaned, making Isabel giggle.

"I'll just... Go, then..." John said awkwardly, walking back out the door. Isabel smiled, looking down at Sherlock. He looked at her, confused. She chuckled, pressing her lips to his again.

Sherlock's hands tangled in her hair again, deepening the kiss. He sat up, moving so Isabel was under him now. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, intensifying the kiss. He quietly moaned, pulling her closer to him. He moved his hands from her hair to her back, slowly moving them down. Isabel slowly and reluctantly pulled away, her lips just a millimeter from his.

"Mm, not now, Detective. Weren't you busy?" Isabel inquired, her voice innocent. She sat up, still straddling him. She stood up, smiling. He stayed on the couch, looking at her with puppy-dog eyes. She shook her head slightly, nodding her head towards the door. "I have to go downstairs for a little bit."

"Why? You're perfectly fine staying up here." He argued, standing up and walking towards her slowly. His hands were suddenly on her waist, pulling her against his body tightly. "You have no need to enter your own flat."

"Except for the fact that I haven't been down there all day and I want to go lay down on my own bed for a little bit and relax." She countered, her hands resting on the nape of his neck.

She felt his hair tickle her cheek, his lips lightly pressed to her neck. She gasped, surprised. He kissed her neck softly, smiling against the soft skin.

"Oh my God, Sherlock..." She murmured. Her hands tangled in his hair, but pushed him away slowly. He looked confused, but pulled away completely. He stepped back, sitting down in his chair. "I'm going to go downstairs for a little bit. If you need me I'll be down there."

Sherlock nodded, watching her walk out the door. He slapped himself in the face, making himself wake up from this damn daydream he was living. He kicked the table, wondering why the _hell _he messed his chance up.

* * *

Isabel sat on her couch, wondering what had just happened.

She kissed Sherlock. She ended up on top of him. John walked in. Then he was on top of her. They kept kissing. She stood up. He was kissing her neck.

"What the fuck?" She yelled, her voice ringing throughout the walls. She heard a bang upstairs, and grabbed the gun she kept hidden in her drawer. She ran up the stairs, slamming the door open. She saw Sherlock aiming his gun at the wall, shooting it. She threw her gun down, making it go off. She realized she forgot to turn on the safety. Sherlock glared at her, his eyes an icy silver. He dropped his gun, but he knew his had the safety on. He grabbed her arm harshly, making her wince.

"What the hell are you doing up here?" He yelled, his voice making her ears ring. She winced again, the pain in her arm and ears somewhat bearable.

"I'm sorry you decided to shoot your goddamned gun!" She shouted, her voice raised in a way Sherlock had never heard from her before. He grimaced, his face holding an expression of utter disgust. Isabel glared at him, her eyes glassy from the tears threatening to spill. "I could have fucking stayed downstairs but I wasn't sure if you would be okay or not. I thought that, somehow, someone had broken in like Moran a few days ago."

He let go of her wrist then, moving his hand to her neck slowly and gingerly. She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut. A few tears rolled down her cheeks and Sherlock kissed them away softly.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hurt you." He murmured, his cheek against hers. She rested her forehead against his. holding his hand.

"I don't feel like I should forgive you." She stated, her voice husky and low. "But I do, Sherlock. I forgive you. Just don't you dare scare me like that ever again."

"I won't. I promise." He said, kissing her cheek. She tilted her head back, looking up at the ceiling. She looked back at Sherlock, and he wound his arms around her waist. He leaned in to kiss her, but she stepped back.

"Just because I forgave you doesn't mean I'll just jump right back in." She murmured, turning to leave once again. She opened the door, looking back at Sherlock. He walked over to her quickly, turning her around and crashing his lips against hers, puling her into a passionate kiss. She stayed still, her arms at her sides, her hands clenched into fists. He gripped her waist, pulling her closer. She jumped slightly, shocked. But she couldn't move much. She loosened her fists, placing her hands on Sherlock's chest. She pushed him away, furious. He looked somewhat shocked. "No. Don't you dare hurt me and then kiss me like it'll make everything alright. That's not how it works, Sherlock."

She walked out, running down the steps and walking into her flat, slamming the door.

"You've probably ruined you're only chance at getting her back" He said to himself, slamming his own door shut and stalking into his bedroom.


	12. I Need You Safe

**A/N: I will only be able to post once every week or every couple weeks, so PLEASE don't expect updates like I've been doing, please expect a little hiatus between them. I'll have to write them out on paper, hand 'em to her, have her type it (she'll do updates for me when I can't). **

**Thank you so much for understanding, and, trust me... I hate being in this situation so much. **

**Thank you, though, Darlings. I really appreciate you guys so much, I really do.**

**Enjoy the chapter (some fluff cometh your way!)**

* * *

Sherlock sighed, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. Isabel sat in John's chair, staring into space, her eyes glassy.

She reminded him of a porcelain doll sometimes; her skin was so pale, though her cheeks always had a slight tint of pink to them. Her eyes were big and round, though they were in perfect proportion to the rest of her face. She was quite thin, though she had muscle like a runner. Her lips made a perfect cupid's bow, curving softly. Her skin was so soft; it felt like silk when you ran a hand down her arm. Her hair framed her cheeks perfectly, the light auburn color making her seem less pale. The freckles that spotted below her eyes forming constellations.

He snapped out of his trance when he heard her voice calling his name.

"Sherlock?" She asked, slightly laughing. He looked at her with a questioning look on his face. "You're staring. At me."

"You're finally picking up the accent." He acknowledged, realizing she was starting to pick up the London accent. She smiled, slightly shaking her head.

"You just realized that?" She questioned, giggling softly. She stood up, tying her long hair into a messy ponytail. "I want to show you something."

Sherlock took her hand, confused. He gladly followed her downstairs though, and she told him to sit on the couch while she went to fetch something. She walked out of her room a few minutes later with a notebook, although it wasn't your typical spiral-bound pack of paper. He hesitantly took it from her hands, looking up to meet her excited and hopeful smile. She gestured for him to look at.

It was leather-bound, and had the words '_Musical Compositions_' on the front in a silver script. He flipped through the pages, to see hand-written musical pieces written on the aged paper. He looked up at her, shocked, and she smiled, plopping down next to him.

"I wrote them. You play your violin a bit often, and it's always the same pieces of music. I thought you might like to change it up a bit." She murmured, tracing the pad of her finger against the yellow-tinted pages. She looked at him again, smiling. "I just used this old trick my mum taught me a while ago. You use tea and a lighter to make the pages look really old. Then I had someone bind them in the leather for me. I also had them paint the script that's on the front cover."

He looked back at her, gazing at her with blank eyes. He closed the book, setting it down on the coffee table. He took her face in his hand, softly kissing her. She rested her hand on his cheek, brushing her thumb along his cheek bone, her pinkie tracing his jawline. He used his other hand to pull her hair from the elastic, his fingers lacing through her hair. She ran the tip of her tongue against his bottom lip, slipping it into his mouth. He moaned quietly, making her smile.

He pulled away slightly, their lips barely touching. He was breathing hard and heavy, smiling softly.

"Do you forgive me?" He asked, his voice wispy. Isabel chuckled, nodding.

"My way of forgiving you was giving you the compositions. I forgive you even more now, though, Darling." She murmured, her eyes fluttering closed. He gently kissed her again, pulling away before she could make it last longer.

"What would you consider us as of now?" He asked, his voice husky. She pretended to think about it for a minute, though to be honest, she wasn't quite sure.

"Not exactly friends... Or friends with benefits. Not acquaintances or colleagues... Dating?" She suggested, and Sherlock agreed, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. He left a trail of kisses from her lips to her jawline, making her sign, content. He smiled softly.

They stayed there for a while, cuddling and kissing, until John came home and Sherlock went to go help him with something.

* * *

Isabel woke up on her couch to the sound of something banging in her bedroom. She jumped up, grabbing her gun off the coffee table. She barged into her room, not caring who was there. She ran in to see Sherlock standing by her bed, with a box in his hand. She dropped her gun, walking over to him, punching him in the chest.

"Why did you break in?" She yelled, pushing him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I was going to... Give you something... But I believe now isn't the time." He murmured. He looked down at the ground, huffing out a sigh. "I'll just... Go. Goodnight, Isabel."

He started walking away, but something in Isabel's mind made her stop him,

"Sherlock... You just... You _scared_ me. Besides, it's.. What...?" She checked the time on her phone. "It's eleven at night, Sherlock. What would be so important that you'd have to give it to me now?"

He scratched the back of his neck, turning back to her. He handed her the small box. She turned it around in her hand, feeling the fake white leather rub on her skin. She looked at him incredulously.

"This is a ring box." She stated, looking at him with a puzzled look. He gestured for her to open it.

"Open it." He muttered, putting a hand over his mouth.

"I feel a bit scared." She said, chuckling to herself. She opened it, taking the piece of jewelry out of the box. She dropped the box, bringing the ring closer to her eye so she could better see it. "Sherlock..."

He walked over to her, sliding the promise ring off her left ring finger, slipping the new ring on in its place. He put the promise ring on her right ring finger.

"Please don't tell me it's an engagement ring." She said sarcastically, a joking smile on her lips. She looked at the ring again, getting a better look on it.

On the band, two gems sat on either side of a small aquamarine. Looking at the two stones, she decided they must've been opals.

"They're not. That's the last thing to ever expect from me." He whispered, looking into her eyes.

"What about being stupid just once... Not counting any time that you're drunk." She murmured, trying to hold back a laugh.

"Other than that." He said, brushing his finger over the ring. "But... I wanted you to stay safe. There's a tiny chip in the ring. If you're ever in trouble for some reason... All you have to do is tap the middle gem a few times. It'll activate, and you'll be safe."

"How'd you manage to get that done?" She asked, knowing that this would've taken so long to get done. He shrugged.

"I know a few people." He said, making Isabel roll her eyes.

"I'm tired. I'm going to go to sleep for good now, okay? You can go upstairs if you want. Unless you feel that, for some reason, you need to stay down here." She said, walking over to her bed, pulling the covers back. "Because, to be quite honest, I could care less about whatever you ultimately decide to do."

"I'm going to go upstairs. Goodnight, Isabel." He said, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. She gave him one on his forehead, laying back down.

She was asleep before he had even left her room.

* * *

Isabel stepped into her car, glad she was able to drive. She closed the door, putting her keys into the ignition. She smiled when she heard the purr of the engine, leaning back into her seat. She turned the radio on, turning the volume up slightly.

She didn't bother trying to concentrate on the voice that was singing and the instruments that filled the vehicle. She just thought of what had happened hours before.

_He'll end up dead because of you. So will John... Mrs. Hudson... Lestrade..._

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles a ghostly pale. She clenched her jaw, taking a deep, shaky breath. She exhaled slowly, loosening her grip on the wheel.

_And then you'll be running again. Because you thought you could run from your past... Fall in love... You'll end up worse than you were before._

"He'll make me a better person, won't he?" She murmured, her arms and shoulders tensing. She still had no clue where she was driving to. She was driving aimlessly, but eventually found herself in front of an abandoned warehouse. She saw a nice black sports car parked out in front of it, confused. She stepped out, watching the door of the warehouse as it opened, a tall man stepping out, a sly smile playing on his lips. He wore a a nice blue pinstripe suit with a red tie, his hair starting to fall out.

She stood straight up, a serious expression on her face. "Mycroft," She stated, walking over to him, holding her hand out. "It's been quite a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes, quite..." He said, a look of disgust on his face. He rejected her still open hand, sticking his chin out at her. "Why would my brother want to be with such a... _Criminal_." He spat, smirking. Isabel walked closer to him, slapping him in the face.

"I may have killed people, Mycroft, but I am nothing near a damn criminal. I did what I had to do to stay alive. I had to murder. I was in a life or death scenario. Not that you would know, since you work in a nice big palace in a nice office." She retorted, her fingers gripping his chin, keeping his gaze locked with hers. "I don't have bodyguards because I don't need them. Unlike you, you bastard."

Mycroft pulled her hand away, grinning maliciously. "You shouldn't insult a man who works for the British government."

"I'm sure they could do without a bigot like you. You don't do anything. All you do is run on a treadmill, hopelessly wishing to lose that goddamned weight. Although you can't stay away from the cake, can you? Mm, you've gained weight, Mycroft. You haven't lost any. I'd stop bothering at this point." Isabel yelled, walking back towards her car.

"I can get every person to turn on you." He threatened, his voice dark and low. Isabel stopped, frozen on the street, feet away from her car.

"You say that like you can have too many." She shouted, her chest heaving. "I have all of Russia against me because of Moriarty! You think I couldn't deal with a tiny country such as yours? Or may I say, such as the Queen's? Since you do nothing for it but waste away in a tiny room?" She yelled, walking back towards him quickly.

Mycroft glared at her. "But I don't think President Putin would be glad to know that Great Britain also knows of your involvement in the Russian Mafia." He murmured. She stared at him, her eyes glassy. Mycroft called for Anthea, whispering something in her ear when she walked over to him.

"It's not like I was going to get out alive, anyways." She whispered, walking back to her car and driving off.


End file.
